It won't be the War that kills you
by thesuperblue
Summary: John can't seem to find his place in the world, and he's just about to give up trying. Sherlock discovers a sickening trail of corpses that lead him right to the good Doctor. Somewhere along the way these two discover each other, in more ways than one. Omegaverse AU with a twist.
1. Chapter 1

It was more difficult to wake up this morning, but then again, it was difficult to do most things nowadays. The chill of the frozen dirt beneath his makeshift bed seeped through his threadbare clothing to settle deeply into his bones. He had only slept fitfully the night before, the ache in his shoulder becoming more and more uncomfortable as the temperature dropped. Finally, he gave it up as a lost cause and simply rolled over onto his right side (much to the dismay of his hip), and watched the foggy London night play out its nightly dramas and heartbreak. He wished, just once, that he could manage a good night's sleep. He had served his Queen and country dammit, for all the good it did him, didn't he deserve one blessed dreamless bit of respite?

Obviously not.

He raked his hands across his haggard face, fingertips catching on several days' worth of auburn stubble peppering his chin. It was almost time to visit the day centre again; he realized with a fretful sting of pride, one could only go so long without bathing before it became obvious you had nowhere to properly call home.

He sat up stiffly, letting the sleepless night work itself out of his shoulder. With the flexing of his abdomen, an accompanying twinge of pain awoke fiercely in his right hip. He winced, and sucked in a breath through his teeth before he could help himself. The long-embedded shrapnel made itself known early today, probably because all of the extra weight it bore throughout the night. Some days were better than others, and he supposed today wouldn't be one of them.

The others, laid out in their own slapdash cocoons slowly came to life, equally resplendent in their wretchedness. John didn't judge a single one of them. How could he? He had found himself here of his own accord, just like most of the others. After all, where does one go when one can no longer function in society, but doesn't have the guts to swallow a bullet?

It was different when he came back from Afghanistan; though he was battered and scarred, he still had a bit of hope. He thought maybe he could find a modest place and practice medicine again…and even though that would never fill the constant hollowness in his heart, he figured he could make it work. He wasn't very old (if you count 35 very old); he was a bit too skinny now but still in good health.

He supposed he could take advantage of his half-gender status, if things truly got desperate. Though, his life would have to be fairly out of control for him to consider that option. Being a latent Omega, there were a few halfway houses or homes in which he could stay, but again, John knew he could make it on his own. He knew he could rekindle the dying embers of his life and find meaning again. Even if that involved spending most of his time painfully limping from one failed interview to another, pretending not to notice the looks on prospective employers' faces when they realized he was naught more than unrealized reproductive potential and damaged goods. Regardless, he could, and would, make it work.

And it did, for a little while.

London was just so damn expensive, and even though his depressingly beige little bedsit was subsidized by his pension, it wasn't a home. With every passing day he watched his bank account dwindle. Of course, there were the monthly stipends. A little 'Hey thanks for letting us ruin your life, here's a few pounds,' thrown his way. But it was like tossing stones and sand into a river, watching it catch the current and float momentarily before disappearing into its watery blue depths. His expenses and debts soon became too much to bear, and with his parents gone and Harry god knows where, he had no one to ask for help. Not that he would.

If he had the choice, and the money, maybe he would have finally gone through with the Treatment he could have had years ago, making him full Omega and at least something desirable. Honestly, he wasn't even sure if this was a viable option at his age. He had heard the older the subject, the more painful and damaging the process. Plus, there was no guarantee he would even be fertile. John laid a hand across the lower part of his abdomen, picturing the underdeveloped ovaries and uterus floating there, useless and atrophied, just like his life.

Just like him.

Originally, it was his parents that decided he not be Formed. John grew up desperately poor with working-class parents that were just as happy to drink away their earnings than to put anything aside for the well-being of their children. His sister, Harriet, she had it a little easier. She was born naturally a Formed Alpha, and lucky for her too. As a teenager she was willful, disobedient, and didn't give a good god-damn what people thought. Her height and extra muscle mass worked in her favor, as she was constantly getting into fights, both verbal and physical. That is, until she found Clara, a naturally Formed Omega who came from a well enough to do family that didn't seem to mind Harry's rough-around-the-edges attitude; as long as they were able to provide offspring. Just goes to show how people will forgive almost anything as long as you are able to fulfill your 'reproductive duty.' What nonsense.

Oh well, John had washed his hands of Harriet years ago. Her misplaced Alpha bravado kept her in and out of prison, following in the footsteps of their parents, drinking away her sorrows while simultaneously ruining the life of the woman who loved her.

The snuffling and shuffling noises of the people around his area grew gradually louder, and he could hear the crunch of gravel under the feet of the homeless that sheltered themselves under the crumbling, sooty bridge. Time to get up properly, he supposed.

He bent his left leg and brought his right leg stiffly out from underneath him, barely managing to raise himself up to his full height. This was yet another indication of his latent Omega gender: slim build, boyish face, short stature, among other things. Outwardly, he didn't look any different from the Formed Omegas; it was the pheromones that truly gave him away. Those that had Formed naturally or synthetically were easily sniffed out by Alpha's, their keen sense of smell was the most sensitive of all the genders, and a Formed Omega's pheromones were an assault to the senses that few Alphas could resist.

John, however…well, he generally smelled of the sweetest perfume that someone put on several days ago and never quite washed off. His scent was so faint, his glands so immature, that he could almost pass for a Beta; that is, a genetically neutral Beta human. There were times, however, when he was under great stress (or distress for that matter), that his scent became stronger…but it happened rarely nowadays, and he was just fine with that.

John couldn't even count how many times during his life that he wished he was a Beta. For all they made up about 37% of mankind, they were sterile. Oh sure, they could enjoy a quick rough and tumble in the sheets, biology wasn't that cruel, but nothing would come of it. Just another reason why there was so much pressure on Omegas to be fertile and reproduce, and another reason why Unformed latent Omegas were so stigmatized. All this nonsense about starting a family, going through Formation, finally giving his due to society just about did his head in as a child, and threatened to do just the same as an adult. Those ridiculous gender studies classes in secondary school were partly to blame for his apathetic and frankly avoidant attitude towards his half-gender.

The day he realized Latent Omegas only constituted about 5% of the population, had been the most devastating of his life. He was 15 at the time and well past due for secondary puberty. Earlier in the year he had been given the unhappy news by his doctor, who assured him that great advances were being made in gender medicine and latent Omegas were not as discriminated against in this day and age. John didn't believe him for a second. He saw the looks at school, both pitying and disgusted; some curious, and some downright malicious. He was handed some ridiculous pamphlet showing a young man smiling blandly, the title read 'Latent Omegas: Today's options for Formation and Reproduction'. He threw that disgustingly pink piece of trash in the bin on his way out, not even bothering to read the tiny text inside, and he didn't bother to look at the colorful posters on the office wall that displayed the A/B/O Gender Spectrum to see where he fit in, because he already knew. He didn't fit in anywhere. That night, he cried himself to sleep.

Every day, his face stayed beet red as he sat through his gender studies class; he felt as though everyone in the class was looking at him, judging him for being only half a human, half a gender. It wasn't his fault his mid-pituitary gland was faulty, nor was it his fault that his parents couldn't afford the necessary hormones to correct his gonadotropin insufficiency. The NHS could only do so much with latent Omegas; the Treatment was considered elective and was thousands of pounds and months worth of pills and/or injections. It took consultation after consultation with several gender specialists for John's family to decide he wasn't worth it. It wasn't much of a surprise. Of course they didn't think he wasn't worth it. As much as a 15 year old could hate his life, John certainly did.

A few weeks later, as he made his way across the empty rugby pitch late after school, things got immeasurably worse.

"Hey Watson!" The hard blow of a rugby ball glanced across his back, causing him to stumble and drop his tattered book bag. Gathering himself together, John looked behind his shoulder, taking in the familiar and angular face of Edward Hutchison, two years older, Formed Alpha and great big bloody brute. Wonderful.

This fool sat two seats over from John in gender studies, and never passed up an opportunity to make John's life hell. He already had to deal with name calling from a few of the other less imaginative Alphas in his class, but the way Edward looked at him was something else entirely. He would never admit it, but deep down it frightened him in a way that he couldn't completely understand. Edward licked his lips like he could taste John's fear each and every day, shamelessly staring at the diminutive blonde like a hawk ready to bloody his prey. John avoided him as much as possible, but it wasn't a large school, and one could only fight the inevitable for so long.

He left the rugby ball on the grass where it landed and hunched his shoulders forward, trying to appear as small as possible. "What do you want Ed?" He couldn't keep his voice from sounding weak, though inside his anger began to build.

"I been thinking 'bout it…you're one of them aren't ya? Those half people Mrs. Johnson talks about in class. The uh, wha's it called? Unformed?" Ed's bulky form leaned over and picked up the ball, bouncing it from one hand to the next, nonchalantly. He looked no more dangerous than as if he had just asked John about the weather. John knew better. He glanced behind the larger teenager and saw two more of his cronies, Pete and Jason, walk up behind him.

Somewhere inside, his anger began to morph into an edgy kind of nervousness. What the hell did these meatheads want anyway? They weren't his friends. John had tried out for the rugby team earlier this year but was practically laughed off the pitch due to his size, or lack thereof. Jason and Pete fell over in fits when they heard John's name called out on the roster, he should have known then that he didn't stand a chance.

John took a few steps back, his trainers crushing the grass under his feet. He shifted his bag back onto right shoulder. "I don't-I don't know Ed. What does it matter? Just, leave me alone."

All three boys formed a line in front of John now, Ed moving forward with every step John took back.

"You know what my Da says about your kind?" Ed's lips turned up into a disarmingly innocent smile, and in another lifetime, John might have thought him handsome. "He says all you really need is a good mounting, and you know, one good bite on that pretty little neck, and BAM" his large hands clapped against the side of the rugby ball for emphasis, "there you have it, just like jump starting a car."

John exhaled a shaky breath he didn't even know he was holding; his eyes growing wide when he finally realized what this was all about…what was really going to happen here. His hands gripped the worn canvas straps of his bag, white-knuckled.

"Ed, please-," He couldn't help it; he began to shake.

The Alpha only shrugged and tossed the ball behind him, the previously innocent gleam in his eyes turning predatory. This was a look John knew well. His heart jumped and thumped against his ribcage, hammering about wildly in his chest. One quick glance confirmed that they were alone on the pitch, and there was no one around to help him…save him.

"Don't worry, Watson. You'll like it; I promise. I haven't gotten any complaints so far anyway. I mean, who knows? We could even make it a regular thing." He motioned to the other two who sprang forward quicker than John though possible, each grabbing one arm painfully, before the small boy could even react.

John tried to scream, he tried to curl his fingers and scratch out the eyes of his attackers, but he was roughly brought down face first onto the loamy ground. Pete and Jason were both breathing heavily, the latter pressing his knees cruelly onto John's left forearm. Pete did the same but used one hand to crank John's head painfully to the side and other hand to cover his mouth. John bucked and kicked, panicked and shrieking into the barrier at his mouth. His screams were muffled, and he could barely hear them over the exertive grunts of the Alphas holding him down. He fought as hard as he possibly could.

This could not be happening. This could not be happening.

Edward ran his hand over the back of John's head, the sandy blonde hair filtering through his wide fingers. The touch was gentle, almost loving as he straddled his legs over John's backside, rubbing his crotch just enough to give himself a bit of friction. A disgusting moan rumbled through his chest and he leaned forward, running his long, thick tongue against John's neck, directly over his underdeveloped scent glands.

"I can still smell you, you know, even if you aren't normal. Every once in a while, I catch a whiff. Right now, like this, it's so much stronger…Oh god…" John could feel Ed's hardness against his arse, and hot, bitter tears stung his eyes. His breath caught in his throat, catching as a desperate sob. "You know it doesn't have to be this way…why don't you just calm down and let it happen. You want this." Edward rubbed his hands up under John's jumper, tugging on the crisp white shirt underneath. John managed another panicked buck, which only managed to inflame the larger boy even more. His hands gripped at John's sides painfully, clenching at his ribs with bruising force.

"Come on Ed!" Peter spat. "Get your rocks off and let's get going!"

"Shut it Pete!" Ed began to fumble with his uniform belt, and John could hear the slip and slide of leather against cotton. He closed his eyes tightly, letting the tears falls and breaths hitch in and out at a dangerously rapid rate. He began to feel oddly disoriented, and dully, in the back of his mind he realized he was hyperventilating and dangerously close to passing out.

Suddenly, the pressure on his arms and backside let up completely. The hand from his mouth disappeared and John inhaled a God-given breath of fresh air. In the distance, he could faintly hear the abrupt sound of his attackers beating it across the pitch, running as fast as they could.

A new, deep male voice bellowed across the pitch, "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!"

John laid on the grass, though he rolled over to his side, clutching at his forearms and finally letting his tears fall unhindered down his reddened and grass-stained cheeks. He cried uncontrollably. He tried to stop, he really did. But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

He could hear quick footsteps approaching him from across the lawn, and a hand was placed gently on his rumpled shoulder. Through his tears he could see Mr. Travers, the rugby coach and Maths teacher. His face was livid and lined with fury. He glanced behind John, brow furrowing as he focused on something John could not see, almost assuredly his fleeing assailants.

After a long breath, he helped John into a seated position, and offered him a handkerchief for his face. John felt so humiliated. Why did this have to happen? Why did he have to be this way? It was his own fault; Ed said he could smell him, everyone always said Alphas couldn't control themselves. All the textbooks and doctors said he shouldn't even have a scent, they all said so. It was his fault.

Throughout all this John actually said nothing, only wiping his face whilst his tears faded to blood-shot eyes and pathetic hiccups.

"Can you tell me what happened, son?" The look on Mr. Travers' face was open and quite earnest. But John could only stare towards the ground, unable to utter a single word.

The next day at lunch, when his best friend Mike made a comment about the numerous blue and purple bruises lining his forearms, he didn't say anything then either.

* * *

John blinked; he blinked hard, pulling himself out of his own head and back into the dimly lit London morning. The memory was sudden and intrusive, completely unbidden, but even dulled now with time the emotional destruction of the attack had stayed with him for years. It was one of the reasons he decided to become a doctor and enlist in the RAMC.

In order to help others, you must first help yourself. He read that once, though for the life of him he couldn't remember where.

With a deep breath, John straightened himself and stood, favoring his right leg. He shook his head, clearing the emotional debris and scattering the memories like the autumn leaves that padded his dirty and torn bedroll. That was a long time ago, and he had long since made peace with his history, and to a lesser degree, his biology.

Right now he was only John Watson, veteran, homeless, practically penniless, and general practitioner to those who had nowhere else to go, or no one that would have them.


	2. Chapter 2

John oscillated nervously, lightly jumping up and down the first two steps of Mary Morstan's front porch, eagerly awaiting the appearance of his date. He had known Mary only about a year, but it didn't take long for him to fall for her bright eyes and dazzling smile. She was a Beta as well (with Omega tendencies, which John found he quite liked), and that made things easier all around as John worried less about gender issues; and Mary didn't really seem to care.

He couldn't keep a smile from erupting onto his face. When he had finally gathered the courage to ask Mary to a movie, she surprised him by immediately saying yes. Actually, she rewarded him with one of her beautiful smiles and blushed in the most disarming way. John could barely keep his own tongue in his mouth. You'd think he was an Alpha slobbering over an Omega in heat; it was slightly ridiculous.

He started to the sound of the door opening behind him, purposefully stilled his jittery hands at his side, trying to appear a little more composed than how he felt.

His smile quickly fell, however, as his eyes alighted upon an imposing middle-aged Alpha male, and not the object of his burgeoning desire. The man took John in in one long uncomfortably assessing glare, moving his eyes up and down in an exaggerated motion. He looked disgustingly unimpressed.

"You're here for Mary." His raspy voice sounded from deep in his chest. It was a statement, not a question.

"Y-Yes sir," John answered; he was nothing if not polite, regardless of how others behaved towards him.

"Let me see your identification." Mr. Morstan (John could only assume it was him) held out an expectant hand, palm up, motioning towards John.

John felt a familiar squeezing sensation grip his chest. So, this was how it was going to go? His date was over before it even began? He barely held in a resigned sigh and withdrew his worn wallet from the left back pocket of his trousers. Removing the small plastic card, he handed it over to the man, unable to return his gaze.

"John Watson." The man glared at the card, looking past the frankly terrible picture of John (he had a spot right in the middle of his forehead that day), and quickly flipped it over, looking for the information concerning his gender status included on the back. John knew exactly what it said, of course, everyone had that printed on their ID card when they sat the driving test, and his read: little "L," big "O," followed by a positive sign. It would be the nail in the coffin.

"Mary's not available to go out tonight, or any night thereafter. Do not come by again." The man rudely flipped John's ID card away with his fingers, letting it flit and fall, clattering to the ground. John watched it land with his heart in his throat, and only glanced up when he hear the door slam shut.

He stood there for a moment, before finally leaning down and placing the damned card back in his wallet. Out of corner of his eye, he thought he could see the curtain flutter in a window situated to the left of the front door. It could have been Mary, peeking out to see if John remained on her step, maybe to mouth an apology. It wouldn't matter though; he couldn't bring himself to look.

He shoved his hands back in his pockets and stomped back to his car, a tiny thing he inherited from Harry, turned the key and choked back hot angry tears as the engine roared to life. It became clear to John, right then and there, that he needed to do _something_ after he graduated. He didn't know what it was, but he couldn't go on like this.

When he started medical school he would be a new John Watson, and he'd be damned if he let_ anyone else_ judge him or hold him back because of his gender.

When the early morning fog finally burned away, John was inspecting a small abandoned bungalow he discovered just the other day. It was out of the way and seemed perfect for harboring an office of sorts; since what he did was a bit dodgy, he certainly didn't need the fuzz coming down on him. His current license wasn't set to expire for at least another six months, so what he did wasn't illegal per se; he was just pretty sure they'd look down on a bit on a practicing doctor with no actual practice. It was more than a little worse for wear though, and evidence of vermin was apparent. One need only look at the feather covered floor and intermittent splatters of bird shite to figure that one out.

Behind him, Marcus blinked silently, taking in the small living area. John limped a few paces further in and scratched at his beard, then ran a hand through his greasy hair. It was grown out entirely too long and curled about his neck and ears in a most unfetching way.

"Seems alright, it'll do for now, at least. What do you think?" He regarded Marcus with a questioning look, but the larger man only shrugged. He wasn't much for words, was Marcus. John had known him for exactly one month and the man had taken quite a shining to the good doctor. He was by his side most days now, and John found that he really didn't mind the company.

Marcus was a special case; this was probably why John felt a certain kinship towards him. When it came right down to it, he was flawed, just like John. Marcus used to be a successful businessman; if one believed the chatter the other homeless dedicated themselves to on a daily basis. Then he found himself in a life-altering auto accident that left him with a traumatic brain injury, among other things. The story was his personality was so changed that his family could no longer take care of him, and decided to place him in a home. If one was very curious, they could ask Marcus himself how he ended up on the streets, and he would only reply he 'simply walked out' one day.

For all John could tell from his scent, Marcus was an Alpha, but his injuries must have altered that as well. The normal Alpha bravado and aggression simply was not present in this quiet, gentle man. In fact, the _only_ time he had ever seen Marcus display any kind of traditional Alpha posturing was due to someone laying unwelcome hands on John himself. That unfortunate beta, a drug addict as high as a sodding kite, left with a dislocated shoulder that John ended up apologizing for and helping reset. It took John several long moments to convince Marcus afterwards that the man was not trying to hurt John, but was not thinking correctly, and he couldn't just go around manhandling other people. Ever since then, Marcus had become John's bodyguard, of a sort, and seemed to take the 'no man-handling' rule to heart. No one messed with John much now, not when Marcus was around.

"We'll have to clean it up of course. I'll ask Brandy and Julia if they can gather up some cleaning supplies later. I need to go to the day centre today though, can't be helped." He disliked the centre immensely, and only took advantage of its services because he couldn't find another alternative he could afford. Some of the workers there looked at John a little too oddly for his liking. When John was in medical school, he managed to hide his gender quite well, even going so far as procuring a fake ID that labeled him a simple beta (no tendencies, a perfect neutral on the A/B/O Gender spectrum).

Now, he used his limited funds for other things, and wasn't quite as able to hide his Omega latency like he wanted. He knew most of the others already knew, their little group was a sort of family that inhabited a certain section of the city, and it wasn't easy to hide secrets from your family. They weren't quite a gang, just a gathering of about 20 individuals with similar life issues that helped each other out. Most of John's pension went to food and hostels for some of the younger women and men. John didn't mind sleeping rough if he could help others avoid the true hardships of homelessness. You could find every variation of the spectrum harboring their ills under that god-forsaken bridge, and each had their own sad stories. John found solace in doing what he could. It was the only thing he found peace in nowadays; that stilled his fractious soul. This had the rather unfortunate effect of garnering John a reputation as the Good Doctor (he didn't mind, though it did make him slightly uncomfortable), as not only did he help others monetarily, he did so medically as well.

"Okay." Marcus shrugged, the lumpy jumper covering his large frame stretched tightly over his shoulders. John reminded himself to see what kind of clothing was available at the centre after he was washed and his clothes cleaned. John himself had only about three pairs of trousers, two jumpers, one military style canvas coat, and one worn out pair of scuffed brown brogues he bought second-hand. He did, however, have at least a dozen pair of pants. He had to draw the line somewhere. One could let their clothes get dirty, filthy even, but pants…they needed to at least be passably clean. John found he couldn't simply throw out years of militant personal hygiene so easily.

He let his mind drift a bit as his weary gaze wandered over the textured wallpaper (a repeating lilac orchid pattern, comforting) and inhaled a long deep breath. His shoulder bothered him something fierce, and every other step aggravated his hip wound. It was getting harder and harder to make things work these days, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could go on this way.

Sudden, radiating warmth pushed gingerly at his back, and Marcus laid his shaggy head down at the crook of John's neck. John didn't even bother to hold back the eye-roll; the man was such a big bloody dog sometimes. He placed a hand on top of the Alpha's head, enjoying momentarily his familiar scent and patting the dirty locks gently.

"I'm alright Marcus, just feeling a little old today." Early into their acquaintance, Marcus had taken to trying to comfort John in this way, though rarely was it truly needed. John wasn't necessarily used to such overt physical contact, as he hadn't had much in the way of physical intimacy in his life. But, it didn't do any harm, and at some point John realized it began to have its intended effects. It did comfort him, made him feel almost…loved, which was different.

"Alright, you great big ruddy German Shepherd let's go." With a playful swat, John gently pushed the man's head away from the hollow of his neck and limped towards the scarred wooden door.

"Okay John." The larger man's tenor answered amiably, following behind like him like John was the comet and Marcus his tail.

Just then, the door to the tiny bungalow burst open, swinging back on its hinges to smack furiously against the dingy wall. To say John was 'startled' would have been an understatement. He managed to get his arms halfway up into a defensive stance before he realized exactly who was behind the sudden flurry of movement into the space.

"John! Thank god! Don't go out there right now!" A lovely, yet thin, brunette Beta grasped John by his shoulders and backed him away from the door. She was apparently ignoring the completely gob smacked look on his face, and twisted her head to the woman behind her.

"_Tell him Brandy!_"

A very pregnant Omega female followed the Beta inside and quickly closed the door, making sure the lock clicked in place before turning to John, her face nervous and worrying. "I'm sorry John."

The brunette released him and turned to the other woman, her voice sharp. "_I said tell him!_ You owe him that much if someone finds him in a ditch somewhere tomorrow!" Her eyes flashed, and she pulled her arms in to cross them angrily across her chest. "After all he's done for you! For _us_!"

Brandy placed a trembling hand over her swollen belly, face flushing in bright splotches of red. After a moment, her lower lip began to quiver. "I said I was _sorry, _Julia! I didn't mean to…you don't understand what it's _like_!"

After a long considering moment, in which John stared wordlessly at the two women, Julia finally relented and pulled the other into a tight (as possible with the large belly between them) hug.

"You know I think that's ridiculous, but whatever." Brandy opened her mouth to reply, only to have Julia cut her off with a quick swipe of her hand.

"Just tell him what you told me; all of it. Then we can figure out what to do later."

John figured it was probably about time for him to jump in. "Ladies…what the _hell_ is going on here? What's this about finding me in a ditch?" He raised his eyebrows, cocking his head to the side incredulously. Marcus, as always, did his best impression of a jumper wearing statue behind John.

Julia turned her head to Brandy expectantly, mouth clamped shut in a tight line.

The Omega worried at her bottom lip and inhaled a shaky breath. After a moment, she began, "The other day…Tuesday I think it was, I was approached by a man. An Alpha, apex-I think. It seemed he was anyway, he just sort of put off this energy. I-It was overwhelming. He was asking some really odd questions, showing me a bunch of pictures of dead guys. They were horrible! He had a presence-"

Julia snorted, rolling her eyes.

Brandy scowled and stopped for a moment, giving the other woman a hard stare before she continued, "I already said you wouldn't understand Julia, quit it with the bitchiness!"

Julia exhaled a forced, gusty breath, turning away to stare out the window nervously. She looked as if, at any moment, some kind of beast would break through the door and make corpses of them all.

"Anyway, I answered his questions as best I could. I mean, honestly, I felt like I was being railroaded. He had these eyes…this voice. He said that all the pictures of the dead men were latent Omegas and homeless and if I knew any of them. I told him no, I didn't recognize any of the men in the pictures, but really I mean who could? They were just awful…the pictures. Anyway, he asked if I knew of any latent Omegas and I…well I-might have given him your name-"

John had to stop her right there, and quickly. "_You what!?"_

Julia spun away from her perch at the window. "That is _exactly_ what I said, John! And she's making me feel like I'm crazy! I said to myself 'Julia, are you crazy?' and then I answered 'No Julia, you are not crazy!' Your girlfriend really did give the man brandishing dead pictures of latent Omegas the name of his next victim, who also happens to be your damn _doctor and friend_! Not to mention the man who will _deliver our baby_!" Julia's normally husky voice became higher and higher pitched as she rushed through that last statement, waving a frantic arm in John's direction.

At this point Brandy burst into tears, unable to keep herself together any longer. "I-I didn't mean to…_you weren't there_!" She shouted, her shoulders collapsed and face a watery grimace. Julia took a half-step forward, possibly rethinking this entire encounter, but John beat her to it.

He enveloped the small ginger Omega in a desperate hug and squeezed her reassuringly, talking lowly into her ear. "Now you listen to me Brandy, and you listen to me good: _that is simply not going to happen. _I know I'm a bit worse for wear, yeah? But remember, I was in the Army. I can take care of myself if I need to…and I've got help." He nodded over to Marcus, who shuffled in the background, pacing, as he sometimes did when tensions and emotions ran high…especially between Omegas. After a quiet moment, Julia moved, wordlessly placing a hand on her Omega's shoulder.

"I'm sorry…you just scared me is all. I am scared for John. Who knows where we would be right now if we never met him?"

Brandy wiped at her face messily, smearing black eyeliner in one long streak from her right eye to ear. Julia smiled, and wiped at it affectionately. "I still love you, you know. You just make _terrible_ decisions."

Brandy's laugh was pathetic, a high pitched warbling noise that did little to convince anyone in the room that she was alright. "I know." She turned away from John and fell into her lover's arms, snuffling into her shoulder.

"So," as touching as this moment was, John did really need to focus on this maybe serial killer who now new his gender and his name, "…this man that you met. Have you seen him again?"

Brandy shook her head in the negative, her face finally dry of tears, only orbital puffiness and smudged eyeliner belying her emotional outburst.

"Well good. That's…good then. Did he say anything else? What did he look like?" He prodded her gently, he needed more information.

"He was rather pale, with dark curly hair and bright eyes. Very bright eyes. Oh, and he wore this enormous coat. I think he thought himself quite fancy, I don't know. He said he was some kind of detective. Though he could have been lying, maybe, he didn't give a name. I was kind of in a haze…you know, it's hard to just _talk_ to an apex when they want something."

"I really wouldn't know Brandy, they're rare; rarer than my gender, after all. Even as a doctor, even in the military I never met one. They keep to their own. It's true most of them are members of royalty or aristocracy, old families that are bred specifically to pass on the apex Alpha line. Genetic perfection, they say." John shrugged his shoulders listlessly. He never liked discussing gender, any gender.

Brandy moved a hand over her belly, eyes going cloudy. "My husband was an apex. They can be…" she frowned as she hunted for the right word, "…persuasive. Dangerous."

"We don't need to talk about him now," Julia interjected swiftly. "John booked us a night at the hostel near Paddington Station, probably the only one we'll get this week. We're leaving and taking it easy after the day you've had."

Brandy nodded in agreement, she looked exhausted after all was said and done. John could only sympathize with the Formed Omega, he would never actually go through a pregnancy himself so empathy was out of the question, always would be.

Julia ushered her tired Omega towards the door, looking back at John as it opened and she stepped through the threshold. "Be careful John, take care of yourself." Brandy shot him an apologetic backwards glance and she and Julia disappeared into the cloudy morning light.

It was quiet once more in the bungalow, and John let it soak in for a few moments before glancing over at Marcus. He was the same as before, and John suddenly appreciated his steadfastness more than the large Alpha would ever know.

"Alright, come on. We need to figure something out. Let's go back to the bridge first; I need to wrap my head around…whatever just happened."

They made their own way through the door, locking it behind them, though in afterthought that was a laughable gesture. There wasn't anything of worth in that tiny space, unless someone was out to steal wilted feathers and rat feces.

Marcus followed at a slower pace behind his limping doctor, practically plodding after the blonde. John paid him no mind, lost in his own thoughts as he was.

It was probably because of this that neither of them noticed a man detach himself from an adjoining alleyway, and noiselessly follow their trail with ease. He cut an elegant figure in the light, and stuffed his gloved hands into the pocket of his long woolen coat that billowed behind him dramatically with every step. Only a moment later, he popped his collar, the lined fabric whispering against his jawline, offering no camouflage but definitely giving the man an aura of effortless allure.

The people on the street gave him a wide berth, and the two men he was following were oblivious, which was for the best really. It certainly made things easier.


	3. Chapter 3

John packed what little belongings he had into his large, rather oblong, army duffle bag. He had become quite adept at neatly folding his dirty clothes, artfully placing them in elegantly vertical piles, one on top of each other, till magically the bag managed to carry all the clothing he owned (among other things). Lastly, he folded his bedroll, encompassing a collection of flannels and one threadbare blanket within, and latched it to the faded green bag using a snap on the side. He slung the entire mass over his right shoulder with a grimace, trying not to be too aware of the fact that this bundle of cloth symbolized all the things he had in this world.

He dug a grubby hand into his pocket and pulled out several small notes, waving them in the air as he limped towards Marcus. It was all he had left for the next few days, his pension not being due again for another week. John shook his head as he finally admitted to himself that at this point, it wasn't London that was expensive, it was everyone he was taking care of.

"Alright, it's time. I have to get going, yeah? Here's a few quid. I want you to get something to eat, something for myself as well…and I mean _real food_ Marcus. I don't want to come back here in a few hours and find you've given yourself another belly ache because you've gone and eaten 23 Lion bars."

Marcus' meaty hand grasped the notes gingerly; closing his fist over and over again, watching as they crumpled in on each other time and again.

"Yes John. No Lion bars this time, John." He nodded gamely, seemingly concentrating very hard on this new and heretofore unknown food rule.

"No. No…that's not what I said Marcus…it's fine if you want chocolate, it's also fine if you want some sweeties. Just don't make that your or our entire _lunch_." He didn't hold back his amused smile, and something on the face of the simple Alpha made him laugh lightly. "You know what? It's fine. It's _all_ fine. Just make sure you buy something for you and me that'll keep our bellies from rumbling for at least one more night. I'll…figure something else out for tomorrow."

"Okay John." Marcus lifted his head and nosed the air a bit, questioningly. Then, he silently came to some kind of decision and shambled away, slowly putting one foot in front of another, plodding towards their next meal; whatever it happened to be. John found he rather like playing the 'What's Marcus going to bring us to eat?' game, and even though that one time was a disaster, the quiet man was practical more often than not. He was sure that at this point, both of them would be ridiculously unattractive animate skeletons if not for his administrations. Although he had to admit that while they both towed the line, they weren't quite emaciated yet.

Hefting his sizeable pack once more, John limped off to the East, the sun now directly overhead. The afternoon had shaped up to be a nicer than he thought it would be after such a dismal morning. Though the dilapidated buildings put most of the small streets and damp alleys he frequented in the shade, it had warmed noticeably. The West London Day Centre gave their referrals and appointments from around 11:00 to 12:00pm, so he had missed that short window by about two hours. He and Marcus had attended to a couple the younger unfortunates in their group for a bit after the incident with Brandy and Julia.

To be honest, John didn't think much of the entire 'serial killer' situation.

If it was true that some crazed psychopath was murdering male latent Omegas, they could do better than a down on his luck, beaten but not blooded ex-Army doctor. He wondered exactly how many men had fallen to the killer, and if they had anything in common. Was it the work of an unstable maniac or a methodical assassin? Brandy had said the pictures were 'horrible,' but didn't go much more into detail. John felt an involuntary shiver raise all the hairs on his body, the muscle contractions skimming along his nervous system, accentuating his rather melancholic mood. His leg hitched rhythmically as he passed through one of the seedier neighborhoods adjacent to the bridge.

The sound of a scuffle and a shout tore through his ruminations and stopped John short. He looked around immediately, trying to locate the intermittent noises coming from somewhere up ahead. Hunching forward, he noiselessly shifted towards a damp wall, realizing the sound came from a darkened alley about 30 meters away. He couldn't be sure, but the voice sounded young, and familiar. With a silent inhale, he peered around the corner, eyes searching for the source of his growing unease in the murky light.

Not far from the entrance to the alley stood a young boy and two large, brutish men (Alphas, by the smell of them). One of them had a cigarette, holding it like joint, while the other cruelly gripped the boy (maybe 14 years old?) with his arms behind his back. The cigarette danced in front of the boy's face, leaving its smoke to cling to the glowing tip in wispy trails. He couldn't hear quite what they were saying, but the smoking man's tone and physical stance painted more than enough of a picture in John's mind.

_Right then, _he thought, dumping his duffle unceremoniously to the dampened, chilly ground. Threatening children was something he simply could not tolerate; plus, he couldn't shake the hazy familiarity elicited by the boy's voice.

John lightly rested his hands in his pockets; doing his best to appear to be nothing more than a rather stinky mild-mannered bearded man in his mid-thirties, and walked briskly into the alleyway. The adrenaline simmering below the surface on his skin began to peak in waves, coursing through his body, lessening the stimulus of pain and fear. His limp wasn't nearly so bad now, but he hardly noticed.

Clearing his throat first, he gave all three of them a chance to turn around and take in the harmless and diminutive man coming towards them. John's first impressions always seemed to be the same: small, quiet, non-threatening, and to a lesser degree, Omega. _Oh, how he relished a chance to prove them wrong. _

"Right. What exactly is going on here then?" He raised his eyebrows innocently, looking from one man to the other. When his dark blue gaze landed on the frightened face of the boy, he realized why his voice seemed so familiar. It was Raz, one of the urchins that frequented the bridge with John's group. He was a bit of a loner, for all that he was only 15, but tough as nails and with the mouth to back it up. Problem was; it was his mouth that usually found him in these types of situations.

Raz blinked and clamped his gaping mouth shut with a snap. John always thought the kid resembled one of those promotional bobble-heads made of celebrities and football icons. His body was thin and narrow, but his head was quite large and round, with a mess of straight black hair that seemed to stick out directly from his scalp. He seemed predisposed to a nervous temper, which made his head turn and bob about on his shoulders as if stuck to his neck on a spring, bouncing and tilting with perpetual motion. Once he saw John he stilled, widened his eyes, and didn't say another word.

"A visitor, eh? Come to save the day?" The smoking man took a long, taunting drag of his cigarette and flicked the lit remains towards John with a sneer. "This 'ere's none of your business, mate. Jus' 'avin' a lil chat with the Razzer 'ere."

The man holding Raz's arms relaxed and he let the boy disentangle himself from his grasp. Raz backed away slowly, looking at John with an unreadable expression, one hand spasming curiously over his jeans left pocket.

"Never seen a chat involve restraining a 15 year old kid, maybe I'm not getting out as much as I should." John replied; following the arc of the cigarette until it landed not far from his water-damaged brogues. After, he nodded towards Raz and took a measured step closer. The men seemed unimpressed, and stood their ground with beefy arms crossed along their sizeable chests. John could feel the tension in the air spike immediately. He wasn't sure why, but he was certain these men were out for blood, and didn't much care who they got it from.

Raz licked his lips, smoothed the front of his ruffled hoodie, then quickly turned tail and ran away as fast as his spindly legs could take him.

This prompted a sigh from John, so much for supporting your rescuer. Oh well, more for him. It had been awhile since John had been involved in a proper tussle, and the muscles in his arms and legs tensed involuntarily, readying the fight response.

He didn't have long to wait.

The man previously holding Raz quickly dove into John's space and swung his arm in a widely telegraphed attempt at an assault to John's abdomen. The Omega twisted and avoided the attack easily (one didn't go through basic training without learning a bit of grappling, after all), slamming both his hands, clasped together, viciously against his upper back in a bone-crushing thump as the man stumbled past him, trying momentarily to regain his balance, and his breath, after the failed attack. Ciggie man wasted no time in joining the fray. Taking advantage of John's distraction due to his comrade's screeching wail of pain and incapacitation, the other man silently maneuvered behind Jon; placing both of his mammoth forearms cross-wise across his neck in a punishing stranglehold. It didn't take long before the Omega began to see dark fuzzy motes dance across his vision, and he counted about 45 seconds or less before he lost consciousness. His face contorted into a grimace; lips peeling away, emitting a gurgling groan.

_Well bugger that!_

Mustering his strength, and blessedly thankful for his days in the RAMC, John effortlessly slammed his heel against the top of his assailant's foot, hearing (and feeling) a satisfying crunching sound as the man grunted in poorly concealed pain. He did not lessen his hold though, and John could feel his hands on the man's forearms begin to grow weak and numbed. As a last resort, he rallied his strength and threw his head back in an uncoordinated but brutal blow to the bridge of the man's nose.

A gout of hot blood gushed over the back of his head, soaking John's dirty blonde hair in thick, rusty streaks. The pressure around his neck subsided and John swung around quickly, though somewhat dazed by the pain in own skull, and landed a rather grueling punch directly to the man's jawline. This time, with his face covered in blood and mucous, the man fell to the ground like a stone. John observed him for a few seconds as he lay, unmoving.

He really should have known better, but in the scuffle with the large Cigarette man, he lost his focus on his other attacker. Chalk it up to copious amounts of adrenaline affecting his short-term memory, but John was actually surprised to be seized from behind yet again. This was getting a little ridiculous. With a cry of rage, John threw himself backwards and slammed the other man into the wall, once…twice…three times before the man howled in pain and released his grip, finally slumping down the wall, and gasping for air.

John himself was little more than worse for wear. Both men lay groaning on the ground, coughing and retching into the slimy paving stones that lined most alleyways in this part of the city.

He gasped a few times, trying to catch his breath, bending forward and resting his hands on his knees. The rush of adrenaline had ebbed but was not completely metabolized yet, not that it would have mattered. The encounter seemed to be over and John huffed out a high-pitched crazed sounding laugh, feeling more alive than he had in years. He managed to escape the entire fight with nothing more than some compression bruises around his neck and a familiar, if not incredibly painful, ache in his shoulder due to abrupt combat.

He did a quick 180 degrees; ready to go back to his duffle bag, when his vision was abruptly filled with a large, bulky fist that hammered across face. Just before John's head snapped painfully to the side, blood from his nose and busted cheek splattering against the ground, he caught sight of the damned Cigarette man winding up for another pass. Apparently these men caught their second wind rather quickly. The second blow rudely grazed across his mouth, splitting John's lip painfully, tearing and oozing blood down his chin. The latter punch had the added effect of throwing off his equilibrium, and he stumbled backwards, tripping over a rotten wooden pallet lying to the side of the alleyway. The Omega scrambled to correct his footing, but it was too late; gravity cruelly pulled him downwards and John fell backwards with alarming speed, cracking the back of his head against the grimy brick wall with a sickening crunch.

His vision swam; it pitched and lurched in varying degrees, making him disoriented and sick to his stomach (Jesus, he was out of practice!). Vaguely, he was aware that he was still involved in a rather ill-advised skirmish he should have never wandered into to begin with. Bright spots of pain snowy white lights danced across his sight, doing nothing to hold back the fuzzy edges of darkness that encroached upon the edges of his vision. Weakly, the Omega made to stand, sit up…anything; but it was a useless effort. Weakness settled on his limbs like a succubus resting heavily on chest, making his breathing quick, labored, and shallow.

In the last few seconds before he succumbed to darkness, he saw a tall dark haired man in a long wool coat confront the other two gentlemen. They all looked quite angry, the cigarette man most of all. The dark, curly haired man gestured wildly, hands flinging about in the air with demonstrative alacrity. The other two gentlemen shared a measured look and then slinked away, supposedly to lick their wounds and nurse their bruised egos. In all fairness, John _had_ gotten the best of them. It was just bad luck, and a badly placed pallet, that caused the tables to turn so dramatically in their favor.

Finally, the tall man turned his gaze to John. He must have been a pathetic sight; sprawled backwards against the clammy wall, half sat up, dazed, bleeding from the face, unshaved, uncombed, and probably smelling of the worst parts of London. John opened his mouth to say something, eliciting a fresh line of blood down his chin, but it was all for naught, as nothing came forth but a long groan of pain. As his eyelids became heavy, he became aware that the tall man smelled strongly of Alpha, but not the overwhelmingly stench-like quality to which he had become accustomed. Brandy's words briefly flashed in his head, _"He was rather pale, with dark curly hair and bright eyes. Very bright eyes. Oh, and he wore this enormous coat…" _

From what he could make out, blurred visions and al; this man was also pale, with very bright eyes, and quite possibly what one would call…beautiful. John was certain he couldn't control his facial expressions right now, but he was sure under the pain plainly showing on his face, the other man could detect (if he was very clever) a hint of confusion, caution…and god knows what else.

Dimly, he was aware that the man was speaking to him, but at that point his vision began to fade. It left him slowly, clouding over the back of his mind in a kind of osmotic process, leaving only a refreshing darkness that envelopied the small Omega in a blanket of painless unconsciousness.

* * *

"…_useless boy_, do as your mother tells you before I clap you about your ears again…"

"…I don't know why you don't just leave John, they hate you. I don't hate you though baby brother, even if you _are_ annoying…"

"…you think you're safe now, huh, Watson? That was just for starters. Next time you won't be so lucky…"

"…Major Sholto's the hardest ass you'll find here in Afghanistan, mark my words. He's the only one's got the minerals to stand up to these bloody insurgents…"

"…John…John _wait,_ _please!_ I-I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about my father. I didn't know he was going to do that, I promise! I never would have…"

"…-lock, are you sure this is wise? He's from the _streets_ for heaven's sakes. Dirty your hands as much as you like, but I am not spending government resources on your little _hunch_, as you call it…"

"…I know what you're doing John – what you're trying to prove. I can see it every time you answer the call. Stop trying to prove yourself to them and start trying-"

* * *

Regaining consciousness was a laborious, and exquisitely painful, process. If it weren't for the pulsing, pounding pain currently taking residence in the occipital region of his skull, he'd be certain he was already dead. When he did finally manage to open a puffy eye, he was met only with smoky darkness and shadows shifting and coalescing into a space he was wholly unfamiliar with.

He emitted a groan as he turned his head, one hand flailing in the dark, brushing against his scalp to find thickened clumps of hair stuck to each other by an unknown substance.

"Oh good, you're awake." A deep, sonorous voice cut through the darkness, accompanied by the switch of a bed-lamp not far from where John lay. He winced as the light blinded him for a moment, the movement making his face and lips tremble with sharp slices of pain.

"Wha-what…?" Clearly he was having problems with speech. The thick tongue resting inside his mouth refused to move properly, and he felt as dehydrated as an Afghani well stricken dry by the sweltering desert.

"What?" The baritone rumbled through the air with an undertone of annoyance. "To what is this 'what' referring, Doctor? 'What' as in, where are you? 'What', as in who are you? Or 'what', as in who am I?" The rapidly fired series of questions accosted his senses, and feeling quite befuddled, John couldn't even begin to think of how to answer any of them.

While his vision cleared slowly, he found himself lying atop a bed, still in his dirt encrusted clothes and unforgivably soiling a lovely dove grey duvet just underneath him. John could hear the shifting of cloth to his right, as well as two pairs of leather soled feet touch upon the hardwood flooring.

The face that swam into his vision was unfamiliar, but arresting all the same.

John had met many people in his short, (and let's be fair) rather pointless, life. Each one of their faces flashed through his mind in that instant, miming some kind of morbid flip book one finds for five pence at the kiddie shops. And at its conclusion, he could say, incontrovertibly, that none managed to still his breath or arrest his heart quite like the vision stood before him.

The man was hewn from Phoenician marble; with fresh, milky skin enveloping a bone structure that would surely make the great romantic painters of the past pause and fumble with their turpentine. Underneath two fine eyebrows shone a set of prismatic eyes so keen, John could be sure the man could read each and every thought floating through John's pathetic little Omega brain.

This had to be him, the man; the man that Brandy mentioned in the squalid bungalow. This had to be the apex Alpha, for never was there a person that so embodied genetic perfection than the tall, curly haired specimen impatiently glowering before him. Currently, the perfect specimen was actually standing _above _John, looking downwards with a queried brow, as if waiting for the smaller man to say…_something_.

With an impatiently exhaled puff of air, the man rolled his eyes to the side and grimaced. "Really, what does it say about the state of Universities nowadays that they graduate _Doctors_ who can barely manage a simple question?"

Then, as if adding insult to injury, John caught the scent of the man. All his life he had had to deal with Alpha pheromones in all their varied glory. He met a man once who smelled pleasantly of chocolate orange, but this man would never have a scent so commonplace. The fragrance that abruptly caressed John's senses smelled of wood smoke, pipe tobacco, and the spine of old, old books. John had never smelled anything so understated, yet undeniably distracting in his life.

"I-Who…what?" John sputtered yet again. It really wasn't his fault. No one should be subjected to this…onslaught of visuals and pheromones and be expected to think rationally, let alone a latent Omega, AKA social and societal reject, like him. All he could think of was what the _hell_ he was doing here, and how quickly he could get _out_.

The man grazed a hand over the breast of his scandalously tight aubergine dress shirt, sighing yet again. Then after a moment he clapped his palms together, twirled one on foot and dove towards the other end of the room, rummaging through a large woolen coat draped carelessly across the back of a hideously upholstered Edwardian chair.

"Ah yes. I see. You have…we haven't…been properly introduced." John couldn't quite be sure, but the man almost seemed…flustered? "Understandable, of course; someone like…you."

Someone like him? Was he referring to John? What exactly did _that_ mean?

John blinked as a small card was forced into his line of vision. The card stock was quite heavy, expensive with a linen finish and embossed lettering. He didn't bother to read it, but only took it limply, letting his hand fall back down to the duvet in an inelegant flop.

"As you can see there," The man nodded, one errant curl dislodged and flirting with the edge of a piercingly vivid eye, "…the name is Sherlock Holmes, and I have a proposition for you Doctor Watson."


	4. Chapter 4

_Oh Jesus Christ good God in Heaven Almighty._

It'd been _dog's years_ since John had seen a proper reflection of himself in a mirror, and rippling, coffee-colored facsimiles floating on the surface of the Thames simply did not count.

If he truly thought about it, he supposed he could admit to himself he had been studiously avoiding all reflective surfaces as of late. He didn't want to see the effects of malnourishment and homelessness had on a 35 year old ex-army doctor then, and to be honest, he didn't want to see it now. But there was nothing for it, he had actively avoided looking upon his pitiful visage for weeks (hell, even months), and now he knew why.

God but he looked old, wretched, downtrodden and…and just plain _old_. He'd seen smashed pieces of chewing gum half-stuck to the ground with trainer tread still embedded on its surface that looked better than him right now.

Time was not kind to an Omega living it rough. His hair was scraggly, unevenly shorn on one side (thanks Brandy) and the weeks of accumulated grease and dirt making it a far darker blonde than its normal golden tones. His fringe fell into his eyes, sticking to his forehead in lanky strands, hiding their once striking navy blue hue. His eyes were now missing their sparkle and hope for life they once had (_must_ have had once, as a child at least), now they appeared dulled; occluded with hardship and worry. While John had long ago resigned himself to no longer think of his person as an object of desire, sexual or emotional, he broke his own heart, staring at his reflection in the rectangular mirror. Who on Earth could, or would, want him now?

With a shrug of his shoulders, the left moving up noticeably less that the right, he pushed his despondent ruminations aside and swiftly divested himself of his clothing. This would be the worst of it, and while John had the emotional strength enough to look upon the reflection of his own haggard face, he didn't know if he could manage to take in the damaged, mangled form of his body. Still, gathering the misplaced courage embedded in the long line of Watsons (alcoholics, gamblers, and the like), he raised his eyes once again to take in the now wasted form of his once fit and tanned figure.

It was hard; it was always hard. Hell, he admitted to himself, this never got any easier…and it probably never would be. His shoulder looked as if a rabid St. Bernard had taken it in its jaw, viciously clamped it shut and jerked it to and fro, snapped tendons and cartilage giving way beneath its jowly mandible; the gunshot wound was that much of a mess. It didn't really help that it was a wet-behind-the-ears field medic, fresh from training that got to John first. While Mark had saved John's life, he certainly wasn't adept at wound dressing under pressure; not at that time anyway. The brick colored indentation in the center of the wound was still tender sometimes, sending sharp stings of pain down his arms and up his neck. Neuropathy from nerve damage, John knew, as a doctor he was familiar with the secondary consequences of seriously penetrative injuries.

John's eyes moved along his upper body, across the sparse hair covering his pectorals, a grey tucked in here and there. He had lost almost all his muscle tone along his arms and chest. His abdomen was practically concave, and while you couldn't see his ribs just yet, it was only a matter of time. His right hip was an uneven, discolored disaster, covered by the telltale wavy meshed scar of a successful skin graft. It was just John's luck that immediately after he'd been shot, the Jeep he'd drove in on was hit by a rocket propelled grenade and exploded with incendiary gusto, throwing him to the ground and leaving third degree burns with melted plastic and metal shrapnel embedded in his right hip. He didn't remember much after that, and for that he was endlessly grateful. John had found a kind of peace in the RAMC; a tremulous respite afforded to him by comrades who didn't care much what gender you were, or weren't. They didn't even care he was a latent, though John still had fought every day to prove himself as good as any Formed gender, they accepted him as he was. And if anyone so much as batted a demeaning eyelash at John, or made a disparaging comment, they'd be taken behind the dusty tents and given a thorough talking to, usually with fists.

Now, John had Marcus…and to a lesser degree he had Brandy and Julia, Raz, and all the other unfortunates that floated under his wing, haunting that hollow space beneath his heart.

His gaze fell down further, sweeping past his genitals, smaller than an Alpha though by no means a source of embarrassment for John. Before he joined the RAMC, when he was still in medical school, he'd seen enough of all the gender's penises to know his was average enough for a latent Omega, though woefully neglected. He had certainly ignored that part of his anatomy lately. It was difficult enough to find food and shelter while living rough; dating or even indulging in a bit of self-pleasure was ridiculously difficult when one lacked even a modicum of privacy. It was simply a matter of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Right now John could only focus on the truly important things, the things that would keep him and those he cared for _alive; _the rest was…well, the rest was just…just nothing. He'd given up hope for all of _that_ ages ago; no sense in thinking about it now.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted John's self-disparaging reverie; and he thrust his hand quickly towards the first towel he could see, wrapping it around his entire body like a robe. He didn't want _anyone_ to see him naked, and he'd be damned if he'd let _Sherlock_ see him like this. For the first time in his life he was actually thankful to be smaller than the average male, as the towel was quite large and covered most of John's bodily shame.

He twisted the doorknob, only allowing the tiniest crack for him to see out into the hallway. Sherlock stood on the other side of the door, quite closer than John expected, and gazed down at him, his mouth twisted in a line of impatience. He tried to open the door further, but John braced his body against it, not allowing it to open a single centimeter more.

Sherlock appeared nonplussed, "My landlady, Mrs. Hudson, has taken the liberty of washing your…clothing." The slight pause told John everything he needed to know about what Sherlock thought of his belongings, "Is…has-is your head feeling better?" Sherlock stumbled over the simple question, giving John the impression that this was not a man who was used to taking care of other people, or even possible _caring_ about other people.

John cleared his throat nervously; Sherlock's scent wriggled its way in through the miniscule opening made by the door, floating in through his nostrils and disturbingly insinuating its way into his hind-brain.

"Y-yes, though, still a bit sore." John hadn't yet had the chance for the proper shower Sherlock promised him after their rather cryptic conversation upon his regaining consciousness. The Alpha had offered him a loose and verbally abrupt explanation of what occurred after the fight, and then offered him some kind of mysterious proposition; but John wouldn't hear a word of it.

At that time, all he wanted to do was leave, get away from this ridiculously distracting and tempting stranger and move on with his life. However, Sherlock was persuasive, and exuded a somewhat static electrical field about his person that John found magnetic and difficult to ignore. After a bit of negotiation, mostly on John's part, he managed to convince Sherlock to not only let him clean himself up properly, but also give him some time to think about this secretive proposal. This was clearly not want Sherlock wanted, and he left the room looking like his mummy had taken away his favorite plush toy.

"Is there anything you need, Mr. Holmes?" John was aware that though the towel covered all the important bits, he was essentially naked, staring at a frankly stunning apex Alpha, who seemed convinced that having a conversation through the bathroom door was a perfectly okay thing to do.

"Call me Sherlock, please." The dark haired man replied, grasping his hands loosely behind his back, but showing no intention of leaving John to his peace.

"Then…can I get on with the washing up? Kinda hard doing that with you hovering about outside, yeah?"

The Alpha continued to gaze down at John, saying nothing, his piercing eyes moving minutely back and forth, reminding John of a very mild form of nystagmus. Then suddenly, his entire body twitched and he turned about in a half circle, picking up several bulky items. "Yes! Yes. Washing…I have some items for you I think you would need in your situation. I tend to keep myself rather clean shaven so I don't have the required instruments to appropriately tackle that amount of…growth, on your face so…" Sherlock thrust an expensive looking shaving kit encased in a supple leather pouch through the slim opening in the door.

"Also, here are some extra towels, pants, pajama bottoms, shirt-" A flurry of items began appearing, shoved through the ever-widening slit in the door. John found he could not keep up with the onslaught.

"Oi, Sherlock!" John tried to take each and every thing Sherlock was handing to him, but he was dangerously close to losing his towel, and was certain that that was a humiliation he would never _ever_ recover from. "I appreciate the thought, alright. Just leave them by the door and I'll get them in a moment."

Sherlock paused, his frenetic energy fizzling out almost as soon as it had begun. "Very well then, Dr. Watson, I await your company in the sitting room when you are finished. We have much to discuss." With that, he inclined his head rather formally and moved down the hallway at a steady pace, finally disappearing through a door adjoining the kitchen.

This afforded John a perfect and uninterrupted view of Sherlock's fine arse as the muscles extended and flexed repeatedly in those dangerously tailored trousers. John shut the door just shy of a proper slam. This was going to kill him.

* * *

John was loathe to exit the shower. The too hot, stinging droplets felt heavenly on his reddened skin, and he could almost feel the unexpected excitement and drama of the last day swirl its way down the drain. _Almost_. The showers in the day centre couldn't hold a candle to this. John felt a welcome swell of contentment curl up in his chest…until he realized, all too quickly, that this was someone else's flat, someone else's water, and only temporary.

With a twist of his hand he closed off the valves and the clear running stream trickled away and died, taking John's unanticipated warm feelings with it. Now came the most difficult and daunting task of all…his head; his hairy, hairy head.

Luckily, Sherlock had made sure to include a pair of clippers with the shaving pack he offered John, and he relished the idea of being military standard once again. On the streets, he usually let one of the girls take some scissors to his hair if it got a little wild, and he usually regretted that decision immediately. This time though, he would have his hair done proper, and he might actually look like a human being again.

Toweling himself off briskly, he wrapped the cloth low on his hips and rummaged through the other sundry items Sherlock had been so thoughtful in providing. He pulled on a pair of navy boxer-briefs, possibly the nicest pair of pants he had had grace his bum since before the army, then a soft pair of grey pyjama bottoms. This ensemble was topped off by a relatively oversized blue and grey striped jumper that had the unfortunate effect of making John appear even smaller, and skinnier, than he was. Well, at least it all matched.

John took a moment to look at the clothing in the mirror. He wondered where exactly Sherlock got this clothing as he was clearly at least 6 inches taller than John, these would be entirely too small on his svelte frame. Did he buy these just for John? For a moment, the Omega allowed a sliver of something dangerous to breach his careful defenses and burrow warmly into the center of his heart.

But no…nonononono. _No_.

He strangled that fledgling emotion to death as soon as he recognized what it could mean, for him, for a latent Omega of 35 who was lonely, homeless, and yearning for something he told himself under no circumstances he could ever have. It was just easier this way, John. Easier, remember? You've tried this before, haven't you? Do you remember Mary? Do you remember what happened with Ja-Major Sholto?

Good. Now you know why you decided to be who you are, and you can't let some pretty-eyed Alpha ruin the equilibrium you cried and fought so hard for.

Squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw, John took the scissors to his face, cutting off the excess beard. In a few moments he would look like a whole new person, but inside, he would remain the same; always, the same John Watson.

* * *

When John finally opened the door, he found Sherlock pacing agitatedly across the sitting room. From John's line of sight, he saw the man's form dart across the doorway several times, each time in a new and dramatic in-motion pose. His slick baritone mumbled quietly into an expensive looking state-of-the-art phone, and his responses were clipped, quick, and to the point. After a moment he slowed, then stopped, dropping his phone by his side with an aggrieved sigh.

"Is…something the matter?" John crossed the threshold from the hallway into the sitting room, his eyebrows drawn in concern. When he decided to leave the loo, he was a little more content with his appearance. His blonde hair, now graying more than it should at the temples, was clipped all around in a familiar military style; and he was clean shaven for the first time in weeks. He felt clean, really truly clean, and it felt wonderful. Though he appeared a bit gaunt, the cleft of his chin and his cheekbones sticking out a bit too far, he didn't look like he was going to fly away with the next stiff breeze.

So, when Sherlock glanced in his direction, John was more than a little puzzled at his reaction, or maybe lack thereof. The Alpha stilled, quite completely, doing his best to appear as reasonable a facsimile of Michelangelo's David while still fully clothed. His noble profile stood out in stark contrast to the fading sunlight pouring in through the lacy curtains hung over the windows of the sitting room.

John fidgeted in the entranceway as Sherlock stared at him, unblinking, for what seemed like a ridiculously long time, saying not a word. Several moments passed and John unconsciously licked his lips. Had he done, or said, something wrong?

Maybe it was mottled discolorations around his neck, barely visible above the collar of his striped shirt; or the developing bruise on his left cheekbone that had caught his eye. It did look like it was going to be quite spectacular.

"Mr. Holmes?" John finally broke the silence before the growing tension became overwhelmingly uncomfortable.

"She-Sherlock…I said, please call me Sherlock." He exhaled swiftly, blinking rapidly, his eyelids an almost blur. John couldn't be sure, but he didn't think Sherlock blinked the entire time he stood there staring at the Omega; a fleeting look crossed his pale and perfect face, but it was hard to place. Anger? Regret? John barely knew the man, so he certainly couldn't afford a guess.

Finally the man turned and flicked a pale, elegant hand in John's direction, nodding towards a faded maroon patterned armchair. He cleared his throat, making even that guttural noise sound distinctive and posh.

"Please, have a seat. My brother will be here shortly and we will begin." The Alpha said the word 'brother' with a hitch and a sneer, there was definitely something going on there, John thought, but he certainly wasn't going to pry into some stranger's relationship with his family.

Sherlock deposited his phone inside his jacket and lowered himself into his own leather chair, placed directly opposite John's offered seat, in one smooth motion. Looking at the disparity in the furniture, John thought it seemed rather apropos. Of course it only made sense that John would get the dingy, threadbare recliner; whilst Sherlock seemed born to his modern leather and steel counterpart.

"Alright then," John's left hand twitched at his side, clenching and releasing in an unconscious motion he found difficult to control, "and if I am to call you Sherlock, you can just call me John then, yeah?" He proffered a small smile, jutting his chin forward, just daring Sherlock to refuse.

Sherlock parted his lips, possibly to utter some scathing remark, but was interrupted by a strange hollow knocking sound near the hallway door. Jerking his head ever so slightly to the left, the Alpha's eyes narrowed in annoyance, and perhaps disgust. John followed his gaze and twisted his torso round to see what could have possibly have garnered such a reaction.

In the doorway stood a tall man, taller than Sherlock himself, currently leaning slightly to the left and resting his weight on a long and sturdy umbrella. The family resemblance was only minor (different mother or father perhaps?) but John could tell the relation if only from the waves of money and privilege that exuded from his slender frame. His suit was obviously bespoke, as was Sherlock's of course, and even his well fitted and shined shoes seemed made for the man. However, whereas Sherlock's face exemplified a kind of exotic, ethereal beauty, this man appeared hawkish and calculating. John found he didn't much like him at all.

"Ah, _blood_, so lovely you decided to show. I thought maybe you had abandoned our little meeting in favor of a coup in Kazakhstan, or some such nonsense." Sherlock's deep voice virtually dripped with disdain as he regarded the other man. It appeared there was no love lost there.

"And a good day to you as well brother mine," the man swung his umbrella once, making a wide sweep in the air and then drifted towards the sofa that resided against the north wall. He sat with the grace and elegance of years of public school education and training. John, on the other hand, felt like an RSPCA mutt among thoroughbreds.

"I dislike all this faffing about, let's just begin shall we?" Sherlock turned his prismatic gaze to the good Doctor and grasped a fat manila envelope sat on the coffee table between them, "as I have said before, I am a consulting detective for Scotland Yard. Now, before you even ask what that means, let's just say that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me."

Without warning, he swung his long legs outwards, and practically erupted from his chair, energy crackling along his frame as he began to pace. It was quite obvious that this next topic of conversation was very exciting, for him at least. John had the good fortune to realize he was staring early on, and closed his mouth as to not appear like a codfish.

"A few weeks ago, I was called upon to investigate a suspicious murder of a young male latent Omega," Sherlock returned his uncanny gaze to John at this statement and while John did his best to appear unmoved; he did shift about in the chair uncomfortably. He wasn't used to his gender being discussed in polite company quite so openly. He hazarded a glance towards the other man, Sherlock's brother, but he managed to appear both bored and quite put out that he was even there.

"His body was found dumped along the Thames, his vestigial reproductive organs removed, along with the entirety of his pituitary and adrenal glands," Sherlock finally offered John the manila folder, to which the Omega flipped open without a thought, then immediately regretted his actions. On top of the pile of many, many papers were full color glossy photos of several young men, mutilated in the way Sherlock had described. It was disgusting, and heartbreaking, these men looked so young, not even out of their early twenties. Who would do such a thing?

Sherlock studied John's rather expressive face as it ran through the gamut of emotional reactions to the photos.

"My thoughts exactly," the Alpha replied, as if reading John's mind, "at first I thought it was some kind of revenge killing. You know, lover's spat and all that…twaddle. But then another body showed up a few weeks later, and then another. It became more than just a coincidence, and as my brother is so fond of saying-"

"The Universe is rarely so lazy." The other man interjected. He was an Alpha, John was sure of it now. Over Sherlock's signature scent, John could smell the rich undertones of leather cream, scotch, and wood soap. However, he lacked a certainly quality of presence that Sherlock exuded. It seemed Sherlock was an apex, but his brother was not. It was not unusual for this to be so; the apex gene was exceedingly rare. Again, John felt like a plastic Tesco brand drinking glass sat next to two tumblers made of Waterford crystal.

"I contacted my brother, Mycroft, when I became sure these killing were related. He has a significant amount of resources available to him, and he feels as I do. These killing are purposeful and made by the same person, or group of persons. To what aim, we are not sure. We do have a few theories, however."

The other Alpha, Mycroft (he finally had a name), gripped his umbrella handle, unconsciously gliding his thumb against the smooth whorls carved into the wood. "My brother gives me too much credit. I occupy only a minor position in the British government-"

Sherlock snorted unbecomingly, his nose wrinkling in a petulant fashion, "Oh please, you _are _the British government. When you're not too busy running Canada and the CIA on a freelance basis."

John began to feel slightly uncomfortable, this entire conversation was a bit above him and he had no idea what this had to do with him and why he was even here. Thoughts of Marcus, Brandy, and Julia filled his mind. The fight had been this afternoon, hours ago, and he certainly didn't want them to worry if they realized he hadn't been at the day centre all this time. Especially not Marcus; Marcus became…difficult to handle when his emotions got the better of him.

Sherlock paused for a moment, lifting his chin and swinging his unnerving gaze towards John. He narrowed his eyes, searching the Omega's face before taking a few steps closer to the armchair.

"Are you alright Dr. Watson?" It was a simple question, but unexpected. John hadn't said or overtly broadcasted any of his feelings or emotions during this entire exchange; so for Sherlock to ask him if he was alright was rather…odd.

"No-I…" John's soft tenor made a marked contrast to Sherlock's baritone, cutting through the thick atmosphere in the room, "I just…I'm not sure what exactly this has to do with me. Why am I here? Why did you bring me here? And in all honesty, I'd like to be told sooner rather than later. I have people counting on me out there." He tilted his head towards the windows, referencing the fading light and most likely dropping temperature.

Sherlock nodded, though his expression didn't change and he blatantly didn't answer John's question.

With a put upon sigh from across the room, Mycroft crossed one leg over the other and spoke, "We need your help Dr. Watson. As a latent Omega, and a homeless one at that, we feel you would be the perfect…candidate to help suss out the killers, and save countless lives in the process. Of course, we would spare no expense with security; your safety would be paramount."

John swung his gaze from Sherlock's arresting countenance to Mycroft, an incredulous expression transforming his already mobile face. "Hang on! _You_ want_ me_ to be _bait?_ You want me to purposefully put myself out there to be possibly _murdered_ and then _mutilated?_ Is that it?" He glanced from one Alpha to the next, neither of them meeting his eyes. Sherlock especially seemed completely engrossed in studying the faded pattern on the rug beneath his large feet. "That _is_ it, isn't it? _Isn't it_?"

He threw the manila folder back onto the table, the papers and photos inside shifting and falling haphazardly upon the floor. John didn't give a damn. He had spent a terribly painful afternoon getting assaulted, only to be (let's face it) kidnapped, and then told he was to be used as some kind of spy bait in a rather clandestine murder investigation.

No. No, not only no, but _hell no!_

"John, please," Sherlock addressed the Omega by his given name, trying to placate the man, his Alpha pheromones drifting through the flat like the most aromatic bouquet John had ever scented. "We've identified who we think is responsible, and if we're careful it would require very little effort on your part."

John clenched his jaw, his muscles flexing formidably on each side of his face. At this point, he felt quite railroaded and, even more disturbingly, used. John had spent much of his life being seen as an object, as a certain type of gender. He wasn't a Doctor, he was a latent Omega; he wasn't a soldier, he was a latent Omega.

He wasn't a _person_, he was a latent Omega.

And once again, he would be used as such. Well, he wouldn't have it. Not today, _not ever again._

He nodded his head once, his willful chin jutting out with new resolve, and stood. "I want my things back please, and I am leaving. I don't know what kind of game you're playing at here, but I don't want to be involved. I am not _bait, _I am not a _thing, _I am a human being and I'm not helping you. You can find someone else."

Both Alphas had the presence of mind to look appropriately dumbfounded. Sherlock especially, his face contorted into an astonished expression that made John believe this man had never once had anyone say 'No' to him in his life.

"But…John," Sherlock pleaded, eyebrows drawn in concern. "_There is no one else but you_. You are the one we need. No one else has the appropriate background, both medical and military, to help us. _Please_." The man pleaded for a second time, almost close to begging. But John had made up his mind, no deal.

"I want my things," he continued, his voice low and as stubborn as before, "and I am gone. Please don't contact me again."


	5. Chapter 5

There was a long moment of pregnant silence in the sitting room. John glared proverbial daggers at Sherlock, who stared unblinking at the Omega in return. Mycroft finally broke the awkward silence in the flat as he uncrossed his legs and stood, his posh brolly repositioned at his side. His footsteps clicked loudly in the silence, softening into muffled thumps as they moved from wooden floor to woolen rug.

"Of course you are free to go as you wish, Dr. Watson." Mycroft stated in his uniquely clipped tone. The obsequious delivery grated on John's nerves, and he found he didn't have many to spare at the moment. The older Alpha turned his torso slightly to the left, reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a twice folded piece of paper. It slotted between his index and middle fingers as he held it outwards towards the good doctor.

John finally tore his eyes away from Sherlock's depthless gaze and looked at the slightly crumpled piece of paper; its surface appeared softened by frequent handling. He regarded it quite dubiously, unsure of the taller Alpha's intentions.

Mycroft inclined his head and exhaled a long-suffering sigh, as if he was through with this conversation and had more important things to attend to (England, Canada, the CIA and such).

"Please take it John, it may pique your interest…it may also change your mind." He straightened his arm only a fraction more and the paper practically touched John's striped chest.

Sherlock watched the exchange quietly, never taking his eyes off of John. Every moment or so, he inhaled deeply and flared his nostrils, but he said nothing. His eyes seemed to flit from one surface of John's face to another: his neck, his left cheekbone, his slightly swollen lower lip. Yet his expression remained stoic and unreadable.

John took the offered paper with a forced smile and stuffed it unceremoniously into his left pyjama bottom pocket, not even bothering to give either of the Alphas the satisfaction of looking at it in front of them.

"We'll see about that, won't we? Or not." John's reply was terse and almost downright rude. He gripped the front of his borrowed shirt and jutted his chin out at them, indicating his clothing. "What do I do with this? Where is this landlady that has my things? I'd like to leave now, if you please."

Finally, Sherlock placed his hands in the pockets of his slimly tailored trousers and spun away towards the window. "You may keep them, if you wish. Consider it a…gift for your time. Mrs. Hudson resides downstairs in the first floor apartment, 221A, as it were. She has your things. They are washed and ready for you. We cannot keep you, of course, but I urge you to reconsider-"

"Nope." Jon practically spat, quick and quite adamant in tone. "Thank you gentlemen…I-I do appreciate you letting me use the facilities but, I'm…I'm not your man. Thank you Sherlock, for not letting those thugs beat the piss out of me, good on you for that." He falls silent then, swallowing thickly and looking down at the floor. A strange feeling of_ something_ blooms in his abdomen, and he feels badly that he cannot help. He helps so many already, and really what could he possibly do? Yes, he may be ex-military and a physician, but he doesn't hold a candle to an apex Alpha detective and his brother, the British government (allegedly).

"I'll just…see myself out then." He doesn't meet their gazes as he grabs the few remaining items of clothing that are dirty. Slowly, he turns and exits the room, his footfalls leaving uneven thumps down the stairs, a testament to one of his many injuries.

* * *

Mycroft watched the limping form of Dr. John Watson turn and disappear down the stairs before he pivoted silently, regarding his brother.

"Well, that went about as well as expected didn't it?"

Sherlock scoffed and flopped down into his leather chair unhappily, his previously cool and aloof exterior crumbling like the paint surfacing the walls of John's dingy little bungalow.

"Well, if you weren't so heavy handed I could have-"

"_Heavy handed?_ I-_me?" _Mycroft interjects, astonishment taking over his narrow, waspish face. "I am not the one who has chased away possibly the best chance we have at catching these…these cretins, with your misguided attempts at recruitment!" He took a few steps forward, eyes narrowed dangerously. "Tell me Sherlock, what exactly is John going to think when he finds out about what that_ fight_ in the alleyway was really all about? Do you think he will appreciate your little _test?"_

Sherlock whipped is head round sharply, piercing Mycroft with a frosty gaze that promised the man if this conversation continued much further, he would not like the outcome. "It was _your_ men, Mycroft! They weren't supposed to _hurt_ him; they were barely even supposed to _touch_ him. How is that _my_ fault?"

"You underestimate the primal urges of the Alpha, Sherlock, but then again; you never really did go in for that sort of thing did you?" The taller Alpha's oily and disingenuous smile split his face. "It's hard for some of them to control their _urges _around Omegas, even latents like Dr. Watson. Especially when said Omega lacks certain submissive tendencies…nevertheless, they have been…_dealt_ with." His grin faded to a slight moue of disgust, he didn't appear to particularly relish this topic.

Sherlock squared his shoulders with a quick shake and flicked his hand in Mycroft's direction, narrowly missing the man himself. "You know what they say about my kind Mycroft: aloof, hypersensitive, incapable of emotion, _cerebral_…"

"Hmm, yes…but what do they say about your heart?"

Mycroft lifted his umbrella off the floor, inspecting the tip for a moment as he purposefully ignored the look of astonished bafflement from his younger brother. Downstairs, the front door slammed closed, and the tiny vibrations from the movement reverberated up into 221B.

In a flash, Sherlock made his way to the window, a pale hand extended to push back the lacy curtains. His eyes trailed the slow-moving form of the ex-army doctor as he crossed the street, making his way to places unknown.

"Sherlock, don't get involved." Mycroft's voice was soft and sibilant behind him; almost pitying.

The younger Alpha didn't answer; he only turned and made three long paces across the room, grabbed his coat, swung it round his broad shoulders and donned it in dramatic fashion.

"You can show yourself out. This isn't over, not by a long shot." Then, with a twist of his lip that signaled the end the conversation, he made his way out of the flat the same way the Omega had only moments ago.

* * *

With every painful step, John began to regret his hasty decision. It wasn't like him to consciously reject a plea for help, nor did he make it a habit to openly lose his temper. Of course, he was rather blindsided by the two Alphas, and the insistent but soft pounding at the base of skull certainly didn't help his patience.

The truth of the matter was, he found being in the company of Sherlock Holmes to be disturbing in so many ways, he couldn't even begin to categorize how he felt about the man. And that _brother_ of his, what a smarmy, Tory loving wanker!

John shook his head clear for a moment, the cooling night air helped immensely. It was a long way to the bridge, and he had no money for a cab. In fact, he remembered quite clearly, his last few notes had found their way into Marcus' hands for lunch. John hoped that even though he had had nothing to eat this evening, Marcus wouldn't make himself go without. He feared the simple man would; it would be his way, without John there to prompt him.

John hobbled along, though relatively unfamiliar with Westminster as a whole, one did not become homeless and not becoming passingly familiar with London itself. He was unaware however, that he had acquired a very discreet and noiseless shadow. Sherlock stayed far behind the limping form, his coat collar pulled up and blue scarf wrapped artfully around his long, pale neck. If John hadn't been so pre-occupied with the events of the day, he might have noticed he had a tail, but Sherlock knew from experience that John was not nearly as observant of his surroundings as he should be.

It seemed like a lifetime, in fact one hour and forty-five minutes, before John gazed upon the familiar under arches of the bridge again. At this point his hip burned, an agonizing pain John had not felt since his time at physiotherapy. It had been months since he had exercised his body to this extreme, but it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter. He needed to get back to the bridge and he certainly couldn't stay with the Holmes'; that kind of torture should only be reserved for terrorists and people convicted of animal cruelty.

It was only a few more metres to his regular spot, a dry bit of land protected by a crossbeam, covered in gravel and dirt. In the darkness it was difficult to see the long man-shaped dent in the ground, worn down by many nights of a sleeping John.

He finally let the duffle bag slip from his grasp; it jerked his right shoulder down and landed heavily on the ground, a cloud of dust thrown up in its wake. God but he ached all over. He may have looked clean, if not a little tired, but between his neck, head, cheek, shoulder, and hip, he felt positively mangled. An unanticipated groan of pain escaped his lips, coming from deep within his chest, and he just barely managed to sit down of his own accord, before his knees collapsed underneath him.

"John?" A voice rang out into the night, coming from an archway to his left. The Omega turned his head to catch a glimpse of a tall man moving towards him slowly, holding a small white container of what looked to be Chinese food in his ridiculously large hands.

"Marcus!" John exhaled loudly in relief. He really didn't have the energy for another unexpected encounter today, and was already sporting enough bruises and injuries to last a lifetime. He glanced down to the container held in the man's hands, Chinese food that was probably hours old and quite cold by now. "Was that lunch? For me?"

Marcus looked down at the box for a moment; then quite suddenly heaved the container against a nearby stone wall. John flinched and watched in horror as it splattered against the uneven surface in an explosion of rice and some kind of chicken with sauce. The good doctor turned his wide-eyed gaze back towards the Alpha, unsure of what to expect next.

"Marcus," John stated his name slowly, raising a placating hand towards the man. "It's alright now. Just…calm down please."

But Marcus would not be calmed, he thundered towards John, kicking up dirt and rocks beneath his feet as he reached the Omega and grabbed him by the lapels, lifting him up like a ragdoll.

"_Where did you go John?" _The man dragged the good doctor forwards, and for all John tried he could find no purchase for his feet against the ground. His brogues scrabbled uselessly in the loose gravel as Marcus pressed him roughly backwards against the same wall that currently dripped cold Chinese food; for a fleeting moment John lamented his soiled jacket, clean no more.

He grunted in pain, inhaled a deep breath and tried not to panic. Marcus was larger and heavier than John, it would be no mystery who would win in this altercation if John couldn't get the suddenly unhinged Alpha to calm down.

"It's alright. Please, Marcus, I'm alright."

Yet Marcus only wrenched John's jacket sideways, tearing one of the lapels. He took at the unfamiliar striped jumper underneath, the mottled bruises around John's neck and his normally serene face darkened murderously. He shoved his face into the crook between John's neck and shoulder, as he had done many time before, but there was a panicked urgency to this action that John had never felt previously. Marcus panted and inhaled to the point of hyperventilation, rubbing his face along John's upper body none too gently.

Oh god. _Oh god_. Now, he knew what was happening. John had been gone for many hours, reappeared, and now no longer smelled like himself. In fact, John now smelled like an Alpha…and an _unknown_ Alpha at that. This was treacherous territory and John wasn't sure what to do to placate the large man.

The decision was taken away from him when Marcus shifted his grip, grabbed John by his biceps and tried to jerk his jacket off completely. He partially succeeded, the jacket was pulled behind John's back, effectively trapping his arms, and half pulled the jumper down with it. The knitted neck stretched downwards, revealing most of his abused neck, and the appearance of even more skin made Marcus slightly more crazed as he squeezed John's arms in a death grip. The Omega gritted his teeth and tried to push the man off, but Marcus growled deep, deep in his throat and became alarmingly still.

A vivid burst of adrenaline coursed through John's belly; this had gone from uncomfortable to dangerous, and quite quickly. John was suddenly afraid…afraid in a way he had not been in a very, very long time.

"Marcus…please, you're hurting me. You need to let me go right now," he whispered, pleaded, a note of distress making his voice slightly higher than normal. "You don't know what you're doing, _please_."

Marcus growled again and tightened his grip on the smaller man. John's words seemed to have no effect, and he felt a strange, warm and wet sensation on his skin. Marcus had begun to lick, quite frantically, long stripes against the bruised skin along John's neck. The feral Alpha released his grips on John's arms and he grasped the jumper in both of his hammy fists, ripping the fabric as easily as one rips toilet tissue. John's chest was now exposed, and Marcus began to whimper while he licked, rubbed, and scented the Omega all over his chest and both sides of his neck.

John managed to glance down at his now ruined clothing, his breath coming in forceful gasps, "Marcus…stop this. _Stop this now_, you don't-"

There was a muffled wet and ragged_ thump_…and Marcus suddenly went limp. His weight crushed John against the stone wall for a moment as the Alpha slumped downwards in slow motion, his hands still grasping John's jumper, before he finally fell sideways and to the ground in an inelegant heap. John eyes followed his unconscious form, then glanced upwards quickly, confused as to what had just happened, and who his rather unlikely savior could be.

Sherlock Holmes stood not two metres away, and in his hand a blood smeared rock glittered in the sodium lights. His own eyes were bright and wide as he rushed towards John.

"Alright? Are you alright?" Sherlock's hands were all over him at once, and John couldn't handle his emotional, and hormonal, confusion any longer. He made to take a step forward, but his legs couldn't handle the weight of his own body, and he stumbled. Sherlock's firm but gentle grip stilled him, and he looked earnestly into John's dazed eyes.

"_Are you alright, John?_ I may as well tell you now that I dislike repeating myself." Sherlock continued, his previously worried expression turned to one of annoyance and something else unreadable.

The somewhat shell-shocked Omega batted his hands away; he had had enough of being pawed at by Alphas for one evening, thank you very much. And Sherlock's abrupt rudeness seemed to break the hazy spell of silence over his tongue.

"Yes,_ Christ_, yes I'm fine, Sherlock." He clutched at his chest a moment, only to catch his breath, and frowned at his torn jacket and split jumper. He just couldn't seem to catch a break. Marcus, a motionless figure at his feet, moaned quietly, a pinky finger twitched in the dirt. He had taken a nasty hit to the head, but he was still alive.

Sherlock still gripped the rock, impromptu weapon though it was, and sneered. He made towards the unconscious Alpha, rock raised once again, but John held him off with a shout.

"No!" John snatched the blunt weapon out of Sherlock's grasp and lobbed it to the ground in disgust. "Leave him alone. He doesn't know what he's doing. He's-he's…"

"He believes he's your Alpha John."

"No, he's not like that. It's not like that." John retorted and rubbed a hand across his face, exhaustion seeped into his voice and posture. He pulled his jacket back onto his shoulders and the ripped lapel flopped sadly against his chest, bringing his attention to his likewise ruined jumper. He shook his head with a sad sigh; this is why he couldn't have nice things.

"Why don't you try telling him that then, John? What do you think would have happened had I not stopped him?"

John raised tired eyes to the taller Alpha, his jumper gathered close to reveal less of his scar-torn chest. "Nothing would have happened, he would have…he would have just finished his scenting. He protects me, Sherlock, he would never hurt me!"

"You think after the scenting he would have… what? Happily left you to your own devices and moved along? Found something better to do?" Sherlock cocked his head, one thick eyebrow raised. "I don't think so. He would have finished what he started."

John simply could not believe this. "No. _Shut up!_ You don't know anything about him, you barely know anything about me or how he and I…he is just my _friend_ Sherlock, nothing more. He never has shown any kind of behavior like this before. _He didn't know what he was doing!"_

Sherlock looked unconvinced and glanced down again at the other Alpha, who began to groan with every exhaled breath. "I could smell it John, he believes you are his, and his behavior just now has proved that. Stop being deliberately obtuse."

"What do you mean you could smell it? I've never smelled anything even close to arousal from him ever. You don't know what you're talking about."

"My senses are extremely acute; it's part of my particular genetic expression and who I am as an apex Alpha. It's clear your nose is not nearly as sensitive as mine. I can smell his arousal, whereas you cannot...simple as that. He may not have been in control, as you seem so keen to mention, but I believe he knew exactly what he was doing. We know our own minds." He glanced down at the man again and snorted with disdain. "Plus his arousal hasn't completely waned as of yet."

John ignored his comment and quickly tired of the subject. He didn't want to think of the repercussions of Marcus' actions, or what it meant for their friendship. He suddenly felt adrift, embarrassed, and disgustingly naïve.

"Why are you even _here_ Sherlock?" His voice was low, drained of life, every word a struggle. "I told you not to contact me again, and I said I didn't want to help. What do you _want?" _The Omega shifted uncomfortably, drawing his jacket tight around his torso like a shield.

Sherlock paused for a long moment and inhaled an impatient breath. "I was concerned for you. I wanted to make sure you made it…_home_ alright." The emphasis on 'home' rankled John's nerves. He may not have much, but he still had his pride.

"Plus I wanted to give you this." Sherlock dipped a hand inside his pocket and pulled out a shiny, black plastic object, about half the size of his hand. It appeared to be a brand new mobile. The Alpha extended his hand towards John. "Please take it, just in case you change your mind. Or…if you need anything."

"I don't accept charity." Jon's lips thinned, his eyebrows drawn together in affronted indignation.

"Think of it as an apology then, of sorts."

John didn't take the phone, he only stared at the object for a bit, reached into his pyjama bottoms and extracted the folded piece of paper Mycroft had given him a scant few hours before. He had not read it, or even glanced at it yet.

"Explain this to me first."

"Take the phone, help us, and I will tell you everything you need to know."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock seemed genuinely pleased when he placed the ridiculously posh looking mobile in the palm of John's hand. He offered information, and asked for help, again. Would John really be so cruel as to dismiss him once more?

John clenched his jaw, a habit he had formed lately, along with biting his tongue whilst being the object of verbal abuse. Not a lot of people were kind to the homeless; especially not in a city like London, where the erudite elite were forced to be reminded of the common human rabble that dirtied up their glorious city. John levelled another glance at Sherlock, the man certainly had the air of the aristocracy about him, but he didn't seem to the type to outright judge or jump to conclusions.

"Everything, yeah?" John's eyes narrowed only slightly, just a touch of disbelief seeped through the tone of his voice. "Fine…we'll take a look at this together then, after we've sorted him out." He nodded down to the prone form of Marcus, who writhed pitifully in the dirt, slowly groaning what sounded like a plea for John. It wrenched at his heart.

The Omega had no idea Marcus had developed feelings for him, no matter how ill-advised he thought they were. Marcus had limited control over his actions and hormones, but John was not one to flirt or toy with anyone's emotions flippantly. Even though he allowed himself little in the way of love and affection, he wouldn't belie someone else's needs or wants. That is not to say he would actually _do_ anything with Marcus, but perhaps if he had known before, he wouldn't have been so submissive and cavalier about the Alpha's behavior.

"Reasonable." Sherlock murmured by way of an answer. He leaned down and pulled at Marcus' meaty shoulder to flop him over onto his back. The ungraceful motion elicited a highly inappropriate curse from Marcus himself, whose bleary eyes slowly opened around the dirt mashed into his face.

"Just give me a minute; I need to go get someone." He left Marcus with Sherlock, who regarded the other Alpha with blatant mistrust and barely concealed hostility. John hoped he wasn't making a mistake by leaving the two alone together, but he assumed two fully grown men could behave themselves for a few moments, even if one was challenged. He supposed he would find out when he returned.

He moved away, silently crossing under the arches until he came across a small cardboard hovel fixed snug against a brickwork wall. It was a permanent fixture, more or less, lasting as long as the cardboard could stand the elements; then rebuilt. Its owner was meticulous and didn't like sleeping under the open London air. John dipped down, brushing his knees against the gravel as he peered inside the makeshift shelter. It was already dark under the bridge, and the obscured space inside brought to mind black holes and gravity fields from which no light could escape.

"John?" A light, feminine voice floated out from the small man-made cosmos, and John lifted the corner of his mouth in an indulgent smile.

"Hello Sarah, sorry to bother you but, I-I need your help with something." He tilted his head to the side and waited patiently for the lady to emerge.

The seconds ticked by and finally he heard a bit of rustling, then scratching, and Sarah appeared. She looked well-rested; especially considering her bed was a wee bit of soggy refrigerator box. John took in her appearance slowly, as he always did. There was just something about her heart-shaped baby-doll face and sweetly curling lips that made him think that…maybe in another lifetime, they could have given it a go. But yeah, that wasn't going to happen now.

"What do you need?" She stood and smoothed down her dirty jumper and jeans with a practiced hand, taking in John's mussed form as she did. "What-what_ happened_ to you?"

"Um…" John ran a hand through his hair, blessedly short now but still rather spiky in a few places. "Yeah, that's what I came to talk to you about. I've uh…had a bit of a rough day, truth be told. I need your help with Marcus."

Her lovely face contorted into a confused frown, her chin dimpled ever so slightly in the center.

"Marcus?" She raised a small hand to trace an invisible line down his face, just brushing the edge of the now fully-formed contusion sat right in the middle of John's cheekbone. "He did this to you?" Her eyes widened with poorly concealed confusion and disbelief.

"Erm, no, someone else did all this." With one hand, he moved his fingers in a circle, encompassing his entire battered upper body. "Though, he wasn't too kind to my clothes."

"Okay, now I'm confused. He's _not_ responsible for your injuries, but he _is_ the one tore up your clothes?" She glanced away, eyes unfocused as she thought it through; a half-smile lit upon her young face, but it appeared uncertain and tremulous.

"Look, I don't really want to go into it now, but Marcus has got himself in a bit of…an emotional way. He needs some looking after, and since you're about the only other person, Omega or otherwise, he'll listen to…" His sentence trailed off there and he shrugged, pleading with her silently.

Sarah raised a wary eyebrow and exhaled a vapory puff of air into the chilly night. "Fine then, John, since you asked so nice. But…you owe me circus tickets next time they come round."

John only smiled a bit and nodded. He gripped the back of his neck, unconsciously squeezing and massaging his aching and beaten muscles. "Is…that a date?" The blonde smiled at his fellow Omega, only a little ashamed at the tiny beam of hope that snuck unwelcome into his voice.

She laughed; the bright, tinkling sound floated through the under-arches of the bridge.

"No, John." Her messy, almost mousy ponytail swung as she shook her head, and John smiled back as well. He was being rejected, of course, but there was no malice in it.

Well, alright then.

* * *

John wasn't exactly sure how to describe Sherlock to Sarah. He could say he was an Alpha, but that would be like trying to explain Buckingham Palace by saying it was a large, fancy, old building; accurate, but not entirely the whole picture. John decided he would just keep his mouth shut and let her meet Sherlock and draw her own conclusions, whatever those would be.

As they neared John's sleeping spot, both Omegas could hear the low, rippling rumble of Sherlock's decadent voice as it bounced along the stone surfaces. The space underneath the arches gave sounds an otherworldly, echoing quality that sent shivers down the good doctor's spine. John pictured Sherlock in his mind's eyes for a moment and sighed inwardly. It just wasn't fair that someone looked and sounded like that. What was an ordinary person supposed to do? How could they compete when someone had thousands of years of genetics and breeding on their side? They couldn't, that's how.

As they turned the corner, both Sherlock and Marcus came into sight. Marcus was sat up now, slowly shaking his head from side to side, his expression one of surprised confusion and fear. Sherlock balanced lazily, effortlessly, of the balls of his feet, knees bent as he gazed intently into the stricken Alpha's face. When Marcus finally laid his eyes on John, he practically scrambled in the dirt, trying to get to his feet.

That was when Sherlock planted a heavy hand on Marcus' shoulder, twisting his own head in a sharp, abortive motion that clearly indicated the larger man should not continue with his current goal. Marcus rolled his eyes back to Sherlock, fear clearly glinting in the reflective whites of his eyes as he audibly swallowed, and stayed sat in the dirt like a very unhappy but obedient dog.

John blinked suspiciously, and frowned at Sherlock.

"What did you say to him?" He knew they had been talking, as both he and Sarah had heard their low, hushed conversation as they approached.

In one ridiculously graceful motion, Sherlock easily ignored John's question, straightened his knees and took in both of the Omegas, focusing sharply on Sarah, who looked almost as tongue-tied and star-struck as Marcus did right now. John watched as her expression changed from curious, to amazed, and then openly appreciative of the male Alpha before her. A burst of Omega pheromones hurtled through the autumn air, subconscious probably, and Sarah slowly smiled at Sherlock, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. It was almost like watching a child lay eyes on their first Christmas tree, lit up with fairy lights and heavy with presents. Sarah appeared so enrapt, that John fidgeted nervously and elbowed her in the ribs as he cleared his throat.

That seemed to break the hormonal fugue for Sarah, and to Sherlock's credit, he appeared bored and quite unaware of the sexual stew the woman had worked herself into.

"Uh yes, Sarah, this is Sherlock. Sherlock…Sarah."

"Helloit'ssonicetomeetyouI'mSarah." She blurted, sticking out her gloved hand as if she were meeting the Queen or Kate Middleton and didn't quite know what to do with herself. Sherlock eyed the gesture for a moment, then rolled his eyes and shook her hand once, before pulling the appendage back with mildly concealed distaste.

John was impressed. The signals Sarah pumped out were obvious and strong, not many would be able to resist with such obvious aplomb. It was as if he were immune, though John knew that couldn't be true. Not 15 minutes ago Sherlock had just boasted about how keen and receptive his nose was. He didn't seem the type to lie about his olfactory prowess; or any other prowess for that matter.

"Hello Sarah." The statement was addressed to Omega at his side, but Sherlock currently looked at John, an eyebrow raised in question.

"Sarah, I need you to take a look at Marcus and make sure he's alright. I know you've had some medical training in the past, like me, and I know he'll do what you tell him." John ignored Sherlock's querying expression and took a moment to rummage around in one of the smaller pockets on his large duffel. It was stuffed to the gills with first aid supplies: gauze, cotton balls, antibiotic ointment, and the like. He pulled out a choice few things and placed them in her small hands. It took her a minute to realize John spoke to her again, and she had to pull her eyes away from Sherlock with obvious effort. John realized, in the back of his mind, that he was glad for his latent Omega genetic status, if being a Formed Omega meant one would drool and moon about an apex Alpha like puberty stricken schoolgirl. Yes, Sherlock obviously smelled amazing, but Sarah really needed to get ahold of herself before she said or did something wholly embarrassing.

Suddenly, John remembered his earlier conversation with Julia and Brandy (good god, that was only this morning!? this really was the longest day ever). He remembered the expression on Brandy's face as she recounted her conversation with the apex Alpha. She said, quite frankly, that it was hard to control herself around him; that she felt overwhelmed and railroaded the entire time. John wondered if Sherlock himself even realized what kind of power he wielded purely from the combination of amino acids and ester bonds that made up his genetic structure. Oh who was John kidding, of course he did.

Not for the first time, John realized he needed to keep up his guard. Though Sherlock had saved him, twice now, it didn't mean he couldn't turn that heady influence back onto the unassuming blonde, and make him do or say whatever he wanted. It would be more difficult, to be sure, but Sherlock seemed like a man who was up for a challenge.

"Sarah," John pressed, squeezing her hand as she peered down at the medical supplies in her hands, a little lost. "Marcus, please. "

She blinked once and appeared to come back to herself for a moment. A blotchy red flush creeped its way up the sides of her neck, around the rims of her ears, to settle its way onto the apples of her cheeks. When she spoke again, her tone was quite sharp, flustered.

"Yes. Yes, alright." She turned away from the two men and sat down next to the confused Alpha in the gravel. She touched at his head with gentle, loving hands, making soft noises to placate the previously quite distraught man.

John turned his attention away from them and back onto Sherlock, who had stepped away from Sarah and Marcus to settle himself at John's side with untoward familiarity. John moved away a half-meter or so, not quite comfortable with being so close to the brunette.

"Okay, the pamphlet." John pulled it back out from his pyjama pocket and finally unfolded the ruined paper. The edges were soft and stains littered the surface, but the printing was still quite clear.

He raised his gaze to meet Sherlock's, the other man's eyes glittered in the soft yellow light, taking on a gem-like quality that John found quite distracting. John looked back down, blinking a few times and reminding himself he needed to_ focus_.

"It's…for a medical study…?" The Omega read out loud. "Latent and Formed Omega's alike, male or female, between the ages of 18 and 40. That's quite a range, even for a medical study." He mused, glancing down at the bottom of the page where vertical strips held a contact number one could easily rip off and take as their own. In fact, several had, as three or four of the dozen or so pieces were missing. John supposed he hadn't noticed before, as the paper was folded and he wasn't able to see the entire structure. A memory flashed in his mind suddenly, and he cocked his head to the side.

"Wait a minute. I remember these. Actually, I think I've seen these around for a while. It's not completely unheard of for scientists and adventurous types to make their way down here, trying to get some of the more desperate of us to participate in…in well, whatever they need us for, studies and the like, I suppose. I've never done it myself, but I know a few who have. It can be easy money, and cash only, in hand." He frowned at the paper, peering down at its coffee-ringed, dirty surface. The company name, Warumomo, was printed in emboldened letters across the top, and didn't ring a bell.

"Why is this important?" John raised a curious eye to Sherlock, who hadn't said much since he had come back with Sarah.

Sherlock inhaled, seemingly to gather his thoughts a moment before he began.

"This exact paper was found in the pocket of the last victim, one George Hargrove. Don't you think it a bit suspicious? A mutilated corpse who participated in a less than public and very much under the radar medical study?" His index finger pointed at another bit of printing on the flier, making the whole paper wobble about in John's grip. "You see what it says there? It's a study on fertility that's asking for Omegas. I'm sure you can draw your own conclusions."

John drew his eyebrows together and nodded; then his face went slack with a bit of shocked disbelief.

"Hang on! You took this from a _body_?" He questioned incredulously.

"Yes," the stunted reply was rather terse.

"A body from an active murder case…"

"Yes."

"…a body from an active murder case in which the Met are currently pursuing?"

"_Yes_," Sherlock scowled and began to look annoyed. "Are you really that much of an idiot, or are you just taking the piss?"

John blinked and managed to look quite hurt at Sherlock's last reply. Sherlock himself only expelled a gusty cloud of breath into the chilly air.

"Oh, don't look like that. Most people are." The Alpha practically squirmed inside his coat, his face just this side of truly irritated. "Idiots, I mean."

"Well, thanks for that." John folded the paper back into its squares with a huff, shoving it into Sherlock's chest firmly. "Since we're all idiots I guess you manage on your own then, yeah?"

The brunette blinked and groaned with frustration; John got the distinct impression that prolonged interaction with people (or conversation for that matter) was not his strong suit.

"They don't know what they're doing anyway! Besides, this paper was only found on the last body and I wanted to make sure it was pertinent before _they_ got ahold of it." His arm swung in a wide arc, as if by saying 'they' he really meant the whole of London proper. "I did some of my own tests. This is coated paper, specifically coated in kaolinite or china clay as it is colloquially known. This sheet, and others like it was milled to a gloss finish, suited for high resolution printing and display, such as _advertising_," at this point, he began to pace, gesturing a bit wildly and seeming to forget John was part of the exchange entirely. "Now…china clay is an organic compound, easy enough…you already know, and as organic compounds do, they disintegrate at specific rates of decay. Taking into account the acidity and relative moisture in the air and surrounding environment, plus the staining by the coffee ring in the upper left hand corner, I can deduce that he had been a participant of the study for at least 3 months before meeting his untimely demise."

Okay. Maybe John really _was_ an idiot.

"You got all that information from this piece of paper..?"

"Yes."

"This one right here…?"

"Yes."

"That I'm holding in my hand?"

"_Yes John, for god's sake! _It isn't difficult, all one need do is _observe. _"

The blonde glanced down at the folded square in his hand, moving it about in front of him in abject wonder. "Incredible."

Now _that_ caught the taller man's attention. "What?"

"Fantastic. That was bloody brilliant." He couldn't keep the look of amazement from his face as he peered at the Alpha. Brilliant _and_ dangerously beautiful? John was in big, big trouble.

"Do-do you think so?" Sherlock questioned, looking for once like he wasn't entirely sure what to think. The man's haughty countenance wavered, replaced with an endearing but hesitant innocence that seemed equally as happy with John's statement as he was to find a lolly in his pocket.

"I said so, didn't I?" John laughed quietly.

"You did…it's just…that's not what people normally say," Sherlock averted his eyes, his tone becoming quieter as he appeared more and more vulnerable.

"What do they normally say? Piss off?"

The taller brunette snorted inelegantly. "Indeed, John."

The Omega returned his laugh and smiled softly. After a long moment, he sighed. "I need to think about this Sherlock. I mean, what exactly are you asking of me?"

At this, the man straightened, all traces of softness fled his frame. He widened his eyes, that manic and frantic energy once again returning and settling into his shoulders. "I need someone on the inside. I already know these murders aren't random, but I need to find a connection. This is the only link I have; the only way I can explain why all these people met their gruesome demise. Don't you _see_, John? I need _you_. You're perfect. A medical man with a military background, latent Omega, obvious caretaker tendencies coupled with an underutilized penchant for danger. You're just the man I need."

John's soft, almost worshipful expression slowly leeched away from his face as Sherlock continued with his speech. He had told exactly zero people under the bridge that he was an ex-army. For all they knew, he was just a down on his luck Doctor willing to help, and his injuries, well…people didn't pry too much when they were more occupied in figuring out how to get their next meal. This was unacceptable, for Sherlock to assume he knew so much about him. He was brilliant, to be sure, but John wasn't exactly comfortable with this sudden, enforced familiarity thrust upon him. It wasn't Sherlock's place to throw these things out in the open, as if they weren't carefully tended secrets John guarded more voraciously than his medical kit. The shock of realizing this man was able to split him into little tiny invertebrate pieces, lay him bare, and practically see into his own brain; John wasn't sure he could handle that.

Sherlock tensed as the smaller man's expression shuttered. The glow behind his eyes dimmed and John looked troubled now. The Alpha appeared stricken, swallowing nervously like someone who had said entirely too much.

"I-I have to think about it Sherlock."

"_John_…for heaven's sake…we need you." The brunette didn't elaborate, but John knew that it wasn't the royal 'we' to which he was referring. Apparently, if he made his bed with Sherlock Holmes, he better make sure the duvet was warm enough for Mycroft Holmes as well. God, what a thought!

"I meant what I said, Sherlock. I'll think about it. Now…goodnight." John knew his dismissal was abrupt, and that only a moment ago he was complimenting the man quite thoroughly.

"_John…_" Sherlock looked around him, taking in his surroundings for the umpteenth time that evening. Surely, his manner screamed, John didn't mean to stay _here_. "At least…at least come back to Baker Street with me. It's warm, and I have a spare bedroom you-"

"No," John clenched his jaw, the muscles aching from the strain over the past 24 hours. "I'll stay here tonight, this is where I belong." He nodded with finality.

Sherlock did not respond; though he appeared a bit deflated, his previous zeal for the situation dampened and weak.

"I'll keep the phone though, yeah? I'll call you when I've made my decision."

The tension in the air wavered and tightened between them, making John lower his gaze and inspect the ground as if it was the most interesting thing he'd seen all evening. He heard Sherlock depart, heard the crunch of his maddeningly expensive shoes crunch upon the gravel as he walked away. For a long moment, he didn't feel he had the strength to raise his eyes from the ground.

Sherlock didn't say exactly _how_ he knew all those things about John, but it didn't matter insomuch as they were completely true. He spared a glance over to Sarah and Marcus, neither of whom gave any indication of hearing any of the exchange between Sherlock and John. Wordlessly, they stared at him as they sat on the gravel and waited. John pocketed the new mobile in the same pocket at the pamphlet, and made his way over his friends, his aching hip reminding him it was late and he had had a very long day.


	7. Chapter 7

**I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has read, and continues to read, my wee little story. It is very lightly brit-picked and not beta'd (although I do try very hard to make sure I catch the typos!). Reviews are wonderful and very welcome. Thank you again! - Blue**

John stood at attention, shoulders back and spine ramrod straight. His army issued olive coloured vest stretched taut across his frame, barely accommodating his trim and fit build. The thought had never quite occurred to him that he should be nervous, being called to his commanding officer's quarters after his last shift at hospital. The Omega figured it had something to do with Private Johnson's comment, and the ensuing 'argument'… if one could call it that. John called it a couple well placed punches to that bigoted bastard's spotty jaw.

Earlier in his deployment, he'd had to deal with all kind of comments regarding his gender, or half-gender, as it were. Most of them were relatively innocuous and immature; calling into question his sexual prowess and what he did or didn't have underneath his standard regulation pants. If he wasn't getting catcalls, he was getting the side-eye, or blatantly stared at like a slab of meat laid out before a pack of hungry hyenas. It wasn't that John hadn't ever had to deal with less than stellar treatment based on his gender status; it was that he had nowhere to go to get away from it now.

So the decision was made, quite early and quickly during his service, that the company needed to be taught a thing or two concerning John Watson.

Thus, he found himself stood in front of his commanding officer, Major James Sholto. He looked a little worse for wear, as Johnson had managed to get in a lucky punch or two. But John quickly showed that loud mouthed cunt what it was like to go up against someone with the grudge of a lifetime, who wasn't afraid of getting hurt or dealing out a week's worth of pain in bruises and broken bones. John smiled to himself slightly, only wincing a bit at the cut on his swollen lower lip; Johnson certainly wouldn't be making smart remarks about the Omega anymore.

"Something funny?" Major Sholto's firm voice pierced through John's self-satisfied reflections.

The blond returned his authoritative gaze with a firm one of his own; just enough to make it clear that he was not one to be needlessly ordered about. John would follow Sholto's command, to be sure, but the Major had to do a bit more then stomp about in his boots and glare to gain the Omega's respect.

"Sir, no Sir." John replied, keeping his posture as wooden as necessary. He took in Major Sholto with one long, critical gaze. The man was older and taller than John, but most everyone was, with a build that spoke of time spent running and swimming than lifting weights or long hours at the gym. His hair was extremely fair, a lighter blond than John's own, and cut in standard military style. His eyes were a dusky blue, similar to John's navy, but greyer. That jawline, John mused, was a wee bit squarer and more finely cut than it had any right to be. The shape of it drew John's eyes across the expanse of his handsome face, which then settled, resting on the generous curve of his lips. The man was pleasantly put together, John finally admitted to himself, trying not to accept that fact that by saying 'pleasantly put together' what he really meant was bloody _gorgeous_.

"Good. You are one of the newest members of my company, and as such I would hate to have you disciplined more than is necessary." Sholto walked around behind the desk and placed both hands down on its cluttered surface. Then he leaned forward slightly, taking in John's presence in a quiet but thorough manner.

"You're a latent...a latent Omega. Is that what this is all about then?"

This wasn't a new experience for John - someone asking a question about his gender - he just hoped that maybe it wouldn't be brought up or that it would take a little longer for Sholto to suss out the truth of today's indiscretion.

"Sir, yes Sir." He answered with a sigh, unable to school his face into impassivity any longer. Let the man see what he wanted, John thought his behavior this morning made it perfectly clear; he had nothing to hide.

"I thought so," the officer sat down slowly in his chair, flattening the vinyl cushion slightly, causing it to squeak in a most unserious manner, "the others aren't saying much, trying to protect their own I'd say. Do _you_ have anything to say to me?"

For a long moment John considered his request. He could tell him the truth. He could tell him that Johnson had made his deployment hell from day one, and he deserved every skin-tearing, bone-crunching blow that landed on his ugly face. Or…he could say nothing and keep his reputation intact with the other men of the company. Here, John was faced with a choice he hadn't had to make since primary school. Did he give in - spill his guts to the authority and stand by as all the others glared behind his back, calling him a traitor, or worse? Or did he suck it up, hold his head high, and deal with his own troubles as they came?

He chose the latter.

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?" His voice sounded stilted and strained in the small, drab office, and John wilted under Sholto's unwavering scrutiny.

"Permission granted." The Major leaned back in his chair, looking for all the world as cool and unbothered as possible. John wasn't sure, but he even detected a hint of amusement in the older man's gaze. This did not sit well with him at all.

John wasn't sure if he could stand serving under a man who didn't take gender issues with all the seriousness they deserved. The Omega had suffered all his life under a black cloud of discrimination and thinly veiled gender bias, he'd be damned if he had to deal with this again in the army.

It didn't help that the man was a Beta….well; he was a Beta with strong Alpha tendencies anyway. Major Sholto was literally one steroid hormone away from being a full-blown Alpha, and it showed. It was obvious in his posture, the set of his shoulders, and the tilt of his hips as he took his seat. This was a man in charge, and he knew it. John swallowed convulsively, taking in a breath before he decided to speak.

"Sir, Johnson made a few comments that were unnecessary, and it was dealt with. That is all, Sir."

The Omega closed his eyes briefly, wondering if that quick explanation and admittance of guilt would be enough. He prayed it would be. Going any further into what actually happened would be a painful and ignominious affair.

Sholto stood from his chair slowly, keeping John in his sight as he did.

Did he really have to _stare_ so?

John felt a familiar wetness in his armpits and knew that his sweating was due his nerves getting the better of him. He needed to focus and pull himself together or no one would take him, or his gender, seriously.

"I've never had an Omega in my company before, let alone a latent. I guess you can chalk that up to the new anti-discrimination laws the government was so keen to force upon us all. So, believe me when I tell you that this is something new to me. You're not likely to see many Omegas in the service, regardless of whether or not they can join. It's just not something they generally _do_."

He began to pace in front of his desk now, a slow, meandering affair that suited the pensive expression on his face.

"I want you to feel safe here, Private Watson, am I clear?" His clear blue eyes were unquestioning in their demand for an answer.

"Yessir, Sir...I mean…Sir, yes Sir." John stumbled over his words. Whatever he was expecting from Major Sholto, this was certainly not it. He felt a rush of adrenaline course through his body, blood rushing through his arms and hands, making his nerve endings tingle and vibrate. Once again, his gaze dropped down to the man's mouth…his perfect, perfectly shaped mouth.

The Beta took another step closer to John, crowding the younger man and leaning dangerously into his space. His voice dipped lower, accessing a register that left John a bit breathless.

What the _hell_ was going on here?

"If something like this happens again, I want to be informed immediately."

John was only able to nod his head once, sharply, in agreement. He ripped his eyes away from their obvious point of interest; Major Sholto's pleasantly flushed lips, and met his ludicrously close gaze. This was observed, of course, by Major Sholto himself who, without any kind of admonishment whatsoever, gave John a small secretive smile.

"If at any time you feel unsafe, you come straight to me. Do you understand?" A delicate layer of sweat broke out on John's forehead, mingling with his short dirty blond hair and threatening to give away any and all secrets currently running through the Omega's head, appropriate and inappropriate alike. It didn't even occur to him that what Major Sholto actually said was a question that needed answering.

"I need you to answer me, Private." Sholto raised a large roughened hand, gently grasping John's chin between his thumb and the padding on the side of his thick index finger. John felt rooted to the spot, dazed, unable to reconcile the fluttering in his abdomen, let alone something as complicated as language.

With the practiced motion of a man who had had many lovers, the Beta tilted John's head backwards a few degrees, lengthening John's golden neck and effectively making the Omega feel even more vulnerable than before. He lowered his head by centimetres, his nose now a hair's breadth away from the delicate skin behind John's earlobe.

"Say yes, John." His voice rumbled, ever closer, hovering above the pulse pounding erratically underneath John's sensitive, shining flesh.

"Y-yes…"

* * *

"…and the nausea and abdominal pain has been present since, when?" John glanced across the rickety folding table to the pale and frail looking Omega sat on the stool opposite.

The reluctant patient shrugged his bony shoulders; an action so blasé even John questioned why the boy bothered to seek his help at all.

"I dunno, a few weeks, mebbe a monf or so." His accent was thick and indicative of some of the rougher, more dangerous area of London. This unfortunate was not one of John's usual cronies and he didn't make his shelter underneath the bridge. He must have been referred by someone who knew John only as the Good Doctor, helper of those who couldn't help themselves.

"And the bleeding?" John prompted, trying to get as much information as he could from the surly youth. Nausea, vomiting, spots of rectal bleeding…they could be symptoms of, quite frankly, an alarming number of medical maladies. John would have a difficult time pinning it down with the limited equipment available to him.

"Um…the same? I dun' really know. Sorta 'aven' been payin' 'tention." Again, he rolled his shoulders slightly, glancing around the dingy bungalow.

John couldn't help but exhale a frustrated sigh. "Okay, why _exactly_ are you here? How do you need my help? You don't seem very keen."

Brandy and Julia had come through with the cleaning equipment for their broken down, abandoned little bungalow. After a few days, it was almost presentable, and if one didn't inhale too deeply, one could completely overlook the musty smell of bird's droppings completely. Still, it was a place to work. Their little group had managed to rummage a bit and procure a few bits of furniture that wasn't destroyed, waterlogged, or otherwise completely useless. It wasn't much, just a folding table, a couple of stools and a very dented and chipped filing cabinet. John had made do with less once, in his RAMC days.

"Well, y' see, I jus' started takin' these new pills righ'? An' they don' make me feel so good." The emaciated Omega, unformed like John, dug around in a filthy satchel and brought forth a silver stamped blister pack of pills. He placed it on the table with unsubtle prejudice, glaring at the bubble containers like it contained all the ills of this world. John furrowed his brow in curiosity, gently grasping the sheet, turning it over once to read the printed label.

"Hmmm," he bit his lower lip in thought, then flipped it back over, peering inside at the rows of pills with a well practised eye for medications. "I'm not familiar with this drug, I've never even heard of the name. Uh…Clomidrel, is it? What's it for?" John slid the blister pack back across the table. The other Omega let it lay there, seemingly unwilling to pick it back up.

"I dunno, sumfin' t' do wif fertility, they said."

"Jimmy, that's your name right?" The boy wobbled a bit on his stool in displeased surprise. He had made it quite clear he preferred to remain anonymous during this consultation. That was all well and good (John thought with an inward roll of his eyes), but perhaps he shouldn't have shown John the blister pack with his name clearly printed along a sticker on the back.

"You're taking these drugs for fertility but, as an unformed Omega, you must know the chances are slim to none that the pills will work. Have you thought about the side effects? Where did you even get those? They don't sound like any medication on the market I've ever heard of."

John leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs; he was currently dressed in a worn pair of jeans (rather baggy on his thin frame now), and one of his least threadbare jumpers. He tried to wear his cleaner, nicer clothing on consultation days, if he could. He had sent the pyjama bottoms and striped jumper back to Sherlock's residence by way of Raz, the same little punk that managed to get John's face punched in. That was two weeks ago, and he hadn't seen hide nor hair of the enigmatic detective since. It was just as well, John was beginning to feel rather strangely around the apex Alpha. It was very much like how he felt with Major Sholto (James), and John was more than certain he did _not_ want to go down that painful road again.

John's injuries had healed fairly quickly, and he counted himself lucky that even though he was a bit malnourished, he was otherwise healthy for a man his age. There was only a faint green and yellowish reminder of the bruises around his neck, jaw, and cheekbone; and those would also soon fade.

"Dr. Adler, I fink her name wos," the other Omega twitched inside his overlarge jacket. "She's par' o' the group, y' know."

"What group?" John leaned forward and pulled a pen out of a crumpled folder sat on the folding table in front of them, he didn't have much for supplies, but he made do. Procuring a piece of paper from the same folder, he began to take notes.

"Y'now, the study group," Jimmy sniffed, the sallow cast to his face making him appear even more disagreeable

"What group is this? Is it…the London Clinic, or maybe Lister?"

"Naww, d'you really fink they'd 'elp the like's o' me? Is sum' new study I saw on sum' piece o' paper."

John sat up, brow furrowed in concern.

"You've seen the flyers?" Quickly, he leafed through the tattered folder and pulled out the original leaflet given to him by Sherlock. It looked the same, worn soft by the touch of many hands, and ripped at the bottom where several people had taken mobile numbers.

"This one?" He passed it over to Jimmy, a questioning (and somewhat worried) look in his kind blue eyes.

"Yeah, dat's de one." Jimmy grimaced and squirmed on his stool, a tell-tale sound coming from his abdomen. John couldn't tell if the man was suffering from hunger pangs or gas.

"So you've volunteered for this study and they're having you take these pills, yeah? Did they tell you anything about them? I mean, did they say what they're actually supposed to do pharmacologically?"

Jimmy regarded him a bit oddly; perhaps John was using words a little too large for the simple teen to understand.

"Naw, I jus' go in twice a week for physical, they take summa me blood, and das' it. Been doin' it now for a littl' ovah two monfs. But I'm startin' t' not feel so good." He raised a bony hand to his abdomen, face drawn tight.

"Right, do you think I could get one, one of the pills I mean? In the meantime I'd recommend an anti-emetic for your nausea. Then maybe some paracetamol, something simple you can get from the chemist." John pulled out a prescription pad, the only thing of any worth in the entire run down bungalow. Some of the more creative of their group had managed to get one or two of these printed, and John learned never to underestimate the ingenious homeless. They weren't all crazy, nor were they all alcoholics or drugs addicts. Some of the people who called the bridge home were educated, had degrees; even had businesses at one point. Life, this ridiculous game of yes and no and rise and shine, had a tendency to be cruel but always left hope for those that could help themselves.

Jimmy passed over the blister pack and John popped one of the pills out onto his palm. It was a capsule, clear on one side and opaque orange on the other. Inside he could see tiny little pink spheres (of course it would be _pink_). On the outside of the orange half there was printed 'WMM 50' in blue lettering. Other than that it appeared rather innocuous. He squirreled it away in the front left pocket of his trousers, thanking the young man.

"Well I can't say for sure it's the new medication or not, but they do generally come with side effects. Didn't they tell you?"

Again, the young man only shrugged noncommittally and pulled his filthy parka tighter around his slim frame. John ripped a piece of paper off his pad and slid it across the table where it was quickly snatched up by the other Omega.

"Fanks Doc. I'll tell me uvuh friends 'bout ya." Jimmy smiled a mangled toothy grin, probably for the first time since greeting John for their appointment. The older Omega took a moment to consider the possibility of perhaps referring him to a really, really good dentist. Someone looking for a challenge, perhaps.

"Alright then Jimmy, come back if you need to…and don't forget to get that filled at the chemist."

Jimmy nodded and slumped his way out of the bungalow. John shook his head, youth these days. He wondered if his parents and other relative authority figures had ever thought the same about him when he was in his younger days. Probably not, John had always tried to be a good kid, regardless of whatever trouble his gender caused him.

Turning his mind back to the mystery at hand, John reached into his jeans and pulled out the small capsule. He rolled it around in his palm a few times; testing the weight and distribution, but found nothing out of the ordinary. A thought suddenly popped into his head, maybe…

In the southwest corner of the bungalow lay John's harried and forlorn looking army duffel. Stuffed deeply in one of his side pockets was the small, rather fancy, mobile that Sherlock Holmes had seen fit to gift the petite Omega. It had been difficult not to text or call the enigmatic self-proclaimed consulting detective over the last few weeks. If John really wanted to be truthful with himself, he would admit that he was bored (beyond bored), and the only excitement he'd seen in ages had been within the company of the infuriating man and his infuriating cheekbones.

John breathed in slowly to a count of five, and then exhaled to a count of the same.

Alright, he couldn't just stand by and do nothing after receiving information that could be vital to an ongoing murder investigation, even if that meant he had to spend more time with the apex Alpha that featured in his most explicit daydreams (and night dreams, for that matter).

He knelt down next to the duffel and pulled out the mobile, hefting it in his hand and pressing down on the power button to turn it on. It was an iPhone, and brand-spanking new to boot. John didn't even want to know how much it cost, let alone why Sherlock bothered to spend that kind of money on a useless, homeless ex-army doctor. All self-deprecating thoughts aside, he had tried to keep it as charged as possible; but that was difficult when his only access to electricity was the Day Centre and the few ChargeBoxes he came across. Of course, the latter required money, which he kept in a tight fist.

Finally, the Apple logo disappeared and the screen came to life. It was a far cry from the old Vodafone he used before he went into the RAMC, that model was as simple as it could get. It had a small drab colored screen with buttons, and that was really all John had needed.

This new mobile, however, was miles away from that. It was colorful, loud, and held a number of tiny, square little icons that John had no idea what to do with.

"Now…if I just wanted to make a call…" John furrowed his brow and sat cross-legged on the scuffed hardwood floor. Sherlock had not given him any kind of user manual, of course, so he would just have to make do on his own. The tip of his pink tongue protruded ever so slightly from his thin but well-shaped lips as he booted up areas of his brain filed under 'electronics' and 'mobiles.' There wasn't much there.

Not twenty seconds after the phone finally reached full functionality, John's ears were inundated with beep after beep of some kind of alert noise coming from the small contraption. It had to have been around twenty notifications, he counted, and a little window popped up onto the screen. Oh, apparently he had text messages. Lovely. He touched the window to view the texts.

He immediately wished he hadn't.

Every single one of the texts was from Sherlock, of course. They appeared, one after the other, in a seemingly never-ending queue of commands, demands, and the like.

**If you have need of me, I prefer to text – SH**

**You do know how to text don't you? – SH**

**No new bodies found on the latent Omega case – SH**

**Have you come across anything? – SH**

**I want my pamphlet back – SH**

**I don't understand why you won't take the extra room in my flat – SH**

**I assure you you're girlish sensibilities are under no threat from me – SH**

**Why aren't you answering my texts? – SH**

**I'm bored – SH**

**John – SH**

**Do I need to send Mycroft? – SH**

**Did you let the mobile die? – SH**

**John – SH**

**John – SH**

**John – SH**

…and so on, and so forth.

John laughed out loud, long and hard. He didn't know why, but he found this entire situation to very, very amusing. No, John had not let the mobile die, but he hadn't had it turned on much since he had it either. He didn't really see the point, as he hadn't made up his mind to help the apex Alpha in his investigation or not. But, considering the information that had just come to light, John figured he _had_ to contact Sherlock now. He still wasn't sure if he was willing to become a human sacrifice in the name of science and the British government, but if he could help the investigation he would.

John's laughter died down and he huffed at the rectangular menace, digging deep into his brain matter, thinking there must be something in there that could help him operate this shiny piece of technology.

"Don't bother. I thought I'd pay you a visit myself, since you seem to have forgotten how to communicate like any decent person."

John looked up abruptly, fancy mobile forgotten in his lap, and laid eyes once more on Sherlock Holmes. He tried to ignore the lurch in his stomach, the flutter of his heart, and the instant beads of sweat that erupted upon his brow. Sherlock cut such a dramatic figure in the doorway, the dim sunlight outlining his person in hazy amber relief; it would be hard not to romanticize his sudden entrance into John's bungalow, what with his coat and his collar and his _cheekbones_.

"Sherlock wha…? What…?" Oh god… John, pull yourself _together_. The Omega flushed most unattractively and cleared his throat. "How can I help you?"

Sherlock stepped inside the makeshift office and gave him a long, appraising look.

"Would you believe," he began in his toe-curling baritone, "that I have a headache."


	8. Chapter 8

With a groan, John hauled himself to his feet, hip twinging as a reminder that sitting on the floor and fiddling with technologically embellished handheld gadgets should _not_ become a regular pastime.

"A headache?" He responded darkly, not believing the taller man for a second. He was no stranger to Sherlock's dry wit, and after his last patient shambled out the door, he was feeling quite exhausted. "Sorry, Sir, but my office hours have ended. No more Dr. Watson after half seven, you see."

"Ah well, I'll just call you John then," Sherlock grasped his gloved hands behind his back and offered John a wavering, albeit forced looking, smile. He appeared to have something on his mind, although the Omega imagined one could count the grains of sand in all the beaches of Cornwall and not even come close to the amount of thoughts that raced through the Alpha's head at any given time.

John slipped his mobile quietly into the left front pocket of his jeans, limping over to his chair as he did so. He had more than his fair share of patients today, and he'd looked forward to a small amount of peace until Sherlock decided to darken his doorway.

"You haven't been answering my texts," the Alpha challenged, moving further into the bungalow, taking in its dilapidated condition; mould, water stains, et al.

"I don't even know how to work the bloody gizmo," John scowled, "I've seen episodes of Dr. Who set centuries in the future that had less complicated technology than that noisy _thing_."

His previous mobile, a Vodafone from his sister, had been an unsightly black plastic brick (useful for phoning and the occasional bludgeoning), but at least it was user friendly.

"Not technically minded are we?" A smile lit upon the apex Alpha's lips, as if this were all some amusing joke at John's expense, "Well fear not good doctor, I'm sure I can find the manual back at my flat, if you are amenable."

"Actually," John shuffled his feet, testing the strength of his hip after such a long day, "I was just about to phone you, that is, I was about to _attempt _to phone you but you've saved me the trouble after all."

Reaching into the same front pocket that held his mobile, John pulled out the tiny capsule he had procured from Jimmy, the uncultured but ultimately well-meaning Omega, "I've just had a client who says he's part of that study you were looking into a few weeks ago. I managed to convince him to part with a sample of the experimental fertility drugs they're giving them."

Sherlock was on John in a flash (and certainly one so tall shouldn't be able to move so quickly), seizing the shiny half-orange pellet and holding it up to his eyes closely. He smiled; a wild and child-like thing that transformed his handsome face, making him appear younger than his thirty odd years. The Alpha rolled it between his index finger and thumb, squeezing it gently every so often, taking in the pill from every conceivable angle.

"Capsule, of course, simple…easy. Plant cellulose, carrageenan, gelatine…animal proteins," his eyes focused on the pill with a laser like intensity, mouth and brain moving in tandem, facts spilling forth with uncanny ease and alacrity. He leant his head forward and gently licked the side of the capsule, much to John's vocalized dismay, "Definitely gelatine and carrageenan based. Orange colouring…Orange B, turmeric, Yellow number 6, oleoresin, saffron, paprika, Citrus Red…look here, the stamp on the side of the pill John, WMM 50, what do you think it means?"

It took a moment for John to stop staring at Sherlock in abject wonder. How was it possible for him to tell the chemical structure of the casing from _licking_ it? This man was a chemistry class all on his own and it was, quite frankly, _fascinating_. John couldn't help but feel like a bit of a useless lump, considering all he did was sit in his chair and follow the madman back and forth with wide, almost worshipful, eyes.

"_John_!" Sherlock exclaimed harshly, bringing the Omega back to his senses, "You still have the pamphlet don't you? Show me."

With a start, John leant over the dingy desk, its Formica surface peeling and lifting at the edges. He grasped the worn and wrinkled folder, throwing it open to reveal the leaflet Sherlock had asked for.

"It's here." John pushed it towards the man, who was now pacing back in forth in a flurry of frantic hands, a woollen coat, and wild ebony curls.

"There, you see? There…" Sherlock pointed a long, elegant finger at the heading of the flyer, "Warumomo, the name of the company; same as the pill, WMM. The 50 must be a lot number of sorts. Blue food grade ink, beta-carotene, probably beet extract…we'll know more once we're back at my flat, _come along John!"_

With that, the deductive genius spun towards the door, leaving John sat in his chair, blinking at the sudden onslaught of information and frenetic energy sparking through the Alpha.

He didn't get far, however, as just as he reached the knob, the door opened to reveal Marcus, standing quiet and unsure in the threshold. In his arms were blankets, a few manky pillows, and various other living items he'd collected out in the cold and dismal streets of London.

With great effort and consideration for his hip, John stood. His overlarge sweater hung unattractively on his thin shoulders, pulling down on one side and giving him the appearance of a child who'd gotten into his father's clothing. The blond sniffled and cleared his throat before addressing the other Alpha.

"Marcus," he hobbled towards the large man, "you've been gone forever, you great big beast. If I'd known it was going to take all day for you to gather our things, I would have had Sarah help you."

Marcus said nothing; only looking downwards towards the scuffed and filthy floor wearing a hang-dog expression John found quite heart-wrenching.

Even though their relationship had been strained as of late, John still gazed at the quiet man with open, but wary affection. They'd never talked about what had happened that night when Marcus had lost control and gone feral…and John sensed the larger man didn't want to. It had taken quite a bit of soul-searching on John's part to figure out whether he wanted to forgive the simple Alpha or not. Sherlock had mentioned with surety that if he had not intervened when he had, then things would have gotten…well, John didn't want to think about that. The important thing was that _nothing_ happened, Sherlock _was_ there, and Marcus' companionship was too dear to throw away; especially since it was well known that his impulse and emotional control was impaired. John had decided to forgive him, but really he wondered if Marcus was able to forgive himself. John had no doubt the plain and forthright man was at least partially aware of the wrongnessof his actions.

Marcus never met John's eyes anymore, he almost never touched John anymore either, which left the good doctor feeling saddened and little bereft. The Omega didn't realize exactly how touch-starved one could get until their last vestige of human affection decided to push them away. Now, Marcus was only his shadow. He protected John, of course, but there was no scenting, no comforting hands on his arms, and definitely no hugging. John felt the loss of his friend's affections as surely as if he felt the death of a beloved companion. Now there was no one to turn to when John woke shaking and shivering from a nightmare; no one to cling to on the rare occasion that he just wanted to be comforted and held. Once more John found himself as he was when he first came back from the war, alone; nothing more than a stoic lonely island, quiet and forgotten in the water of the frigid and windy North Sea.

Not for the first time, John wondered what exactly Sherlock had said to the distressed Alpha that night under the bridge. It had been directly after that that everything had changed. Maybe when he was more familiar with the apex Alpha, he would ask him. Although he was unsure of whether or not he would get a straight answer, or just some kind of cryptic response that would resolve nothing. Suddenly, John felt his sorrow roll forth from him in thick waves, threatening to crack his professional veneer of iron-clad patience and unflappable humour in the face of adversity.

Sherlock ignored the other Alpha in the room (Marcus did likewise), and moved towards the distressed Omega, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing intensely, "John?"

With a heaving breath, John came back to his senses; ashamed that he allowed even that brief moment of melancholy to cloud his thoughts. No doubt Sherlock was reacting to the scant amount of pheromones he was emitting, although with his sensitive nose it was probably obvious to him that John was less than happy.

"It's nothing," John said with finality, pulling the drooping bit of knitted jumper back up over his shoulder. "Go ahead and take all that upstairs please Marcus, Julia managed to clean out most of the rooms. You can pick one for yourself; I'll pick one for my own later."

Sherlock continued to stare intently at the Omega, his bright tourmaline eyes boring into John's own, so much so that the he had to look away, his complexion flushed under such overt scrutiny.

"John…" Sherlock's deep voice cut through the thickened air around them and he would have continued had John not turned away, reaching for his folder to file in the filing cabinets.

"_Don't_." He pleaded with his back to the man, wishing for once Sherlock would find an ounce of propriety in his big thick head and take a hint. "Just…_don't_."

In the background, Marcus began his slow descent up the stairs, each old wooden step whinging and groaning under the weight of the large man.

* * *

It was quite an uncomfortable cab ride to Sherlock's flat. John squirmed irritably in the seat, feeling out of place sitting next to the posh young man, and noticing the cabbie glance at him with a reproachful glare every so often. The Omega knew he looked a mess; unshaven yet again and probably smelling a little worse for wear (though his clothes _were_ on the right side of clean, more or less). He tried not to let it get to him, but there was only so much staring he could take before he averted his eyes and found the carpeted floor immensely interesting. If Sherlock noticed his shame, he said nothing, lost in his own mind as he was.

After they'd arrived at 221B Baker Street, the Alpha regained his energy and flitted about the flat with the comfort and ease of one who knew exactly where the needle was in the haystack; John himself could sense no discernible rhyme or reason to the haphazard placement of Sherlock's belongings, including books, papers, clothing, and one viciously stabbed-to-the-wall Cluedo playing board. The blond raised his eyebrows in unfeigned curiosity, _I bet that's an interesting tale_, he thought.

The flat was more or less how he remembered it though: the couch on the north wall, the steel and leather chair, the hideously upholstered maroon recliner that John sat in last time, and so on and so forth. The entire space was awash with the scent of the apex Alpha, the spicy notes of wood smoke and pipe tobacco meandered through the air, unseen but felt like wintry drafts in an old Victorian mansion. John allowed himself a moment to breathe it all in, and wondered what it would be like to be wrapped in that scent always. What it would be like to wake up with it slithering all around him, pervading his senses, all encompassing. Almost like a lifetime promise of love and protection.

He sniffed and blinked that thought away as quickly as he could, it wouldn't do to go down that road. Not when Sherlock seemed otherwise uninterested and purposefully projected an aura so prickly as to be above all such things.

Now that John was free to wander around the flat as he wished, he finally managed to get a good look at the kitchen.

It held an astonishing array of bottles, canisters, test tubes, beakers, flasks, and pretty much any kind of container one could use for experiments in a lab. The cupboards had seen better days, and John was loathe to open them, assuming he would probably not find food, but something else altogether distressing harboured inside. He managed to keep his hands to himself, as even though he was invited, it wasn't his place to go digging into others peoples' personal spaces. It didn't really surprise the older blond that he could count mad scientist among the list of Sherlock's many talents; which also currently included detective, invader of personal space, runway model, and all around disgustingly attractive prat.

While John petered about the kitchen, taking in its odds and ends and rather unsightly bits, Sherlock sat directly in front of the medium length dining table, his head perched bird-like over a very expensive looking microscope. The shine of the lens projected two round bright white circles around his eyes, reflecting the colour of his irises in such a way as to make them appear silvery, like discs of mercury on a milky white surface. He'd spent the previous half-hour dismantling the oblong pill, using his alarmingly dexterous fingers to gently coax the two ends apart, pouring the small pink spheres into his medium sized mortar (the pestle lying just to the side of the bowl), and placing each of the capsule halves into a clear fluid that dissolved the casings almost immediately.

He then used a small one millilitre dropper to slowly settle one perfectly spherical droplet of each of the new solutions onto two separate slides. The Alpha studied each slide one its own, intensely muttering under his breath, before wrenching his hands through his hair and abruptly ripping the slides out from underneath the microscope clips and unceremoniously tossing each piece of thin glass away from him. John watched as they skittered across the table, the slip covers managing to keep the small amounts of liquid adhered to the glass.

"No luck?" prompted the Omega, who, after at least thirty minutes in the flat, was really beginning to crave a bit of tea, and a comfortable place to rest his hip.

"No, it's just as I thought…gelatine, cellulose, and the like - all standard, nothing exciting, nothing to even remotely set it aside as anything out of the ordinary or _new_." He spat that last word out like it had personally affronted him, then ran his hands back and forth through his hair petulantly, like a child pondering a particularly complex problem he couldn't quite wrap his head around.

After a moment, he seemed to settle, peering over at John and inhaling deeply. An unexpected calmness came over his face and he looked a bit chagrined at his behaviour, though he said nothing.

"Maybe the pellets will offer some kind of clue…the answers are generally in the medication after all." The Alpha grasped his marble mortar and pestle, a tool that looked to have been used many, many times, and began to slowly grind the pink spheres into a very fine dust.

John took in the man at work, and (tired of waiting for an invitation) sat down stiffly in the chair across from him. The Omega wondered if this was what Sherlock's life was like all the time…mysteries, murders, experiments, and the like. He wondered if the man ever became lonely, although you wouldn't be able to tell just by looking. The apex Alpha succeeded at keeping himself duly occupied whenever he was in John's presence, moving and running about, pacing and talking a mile a minute. Still, John wondered if there wasn't anyone special in his life.

He cleared his throat, managing a watery smile and tried to catch the attention of the other man, who was currently preparing yet more slides with a new aqueous solution containing the previously pink pellets.

"So…have you…got a girlfriend then?"

Oh _shit_.

He hadn't meant to blurt it out quite like _that_. John could feel a full body blush developing, beginning at the tips of toes and continuing right up onto the caps of his ears. He was afraid to look at the other man now, afraid that the Alpha would assume John was trying to chat him up. But, to his credit and John's immense relief, Sherlock seemed to take the question in stride.

Without moving his fluidly iridescent gaze from the cylindrical eyepieces, he merely shrugged, fiddling with the dials on the base of the microscope until the slide was in focus to his satisfaction. He lazily scrawled a few notes on a piece of crumpled paper sat next to his equipment and huffed ever so lightly.

"Girlfriend? No…not really my area." He continued on with his examination, humming every once in a while, a wrinkle appearing between his brows.

John fidgeted slightly, and crossed his hands in front of him, trying something…anything, to keep some amount of conversation going. Sherlock was difficult to talk to at best, and John knew next to nothing about the perplexing Alpha.

"Okay…boyfriend then? Which is fine -"

"_I know it's fine_," This time Sherlock did look away from his experiment, his laser-like gaze cementing the Omega to his seat, answering almost immediately and practically speaking over John in his haste, "But no, no _boyfriend _either."

John blinked and nodded his head harmlessly, forcing a small but tremulous smile, "Good, so…you're unattached, like me. Good."

Oh Jesus almighty, did he_ really_ just say that?

The Omega resisted the temptation to pound his head over and over onto the table, if only to prevent bits of glass and fragile slides from embedding themselves into his forehead. God, he sounded so desperate. He was a fool. He was making a total fool of himself and he should just leave now and save himself the humiliation. He wasn't sure he could handle the almost certain rejection from this beautiful creature that was tiers above him in social status; genetic elitism notwithstanding.

A wave of exhaustion washed over John's small frame, and it was decided, he would leave, make his way back to the bungalow, and lick his wounds in lonely silence. With one shaky inhale, he pushed away from the table and stood, turning away from the man to gather his canvas coat (lapel mended badly by Brandy) he had laid over the back of the maroon chair. He could feel his pulsing heartbeat in both his bullet wound and his tortured hip, and even though he and his some of his crew were now squatting in the shelter provided by the bungalow, it was going to be a long, cold night.

John's movement caught Sherlock's eye, as he had immediately returned his attention back to the microscope after the Omega's last comment, and he raised his head up sharply. A fleeting look of concern lit upon his face, but it was gone almost as soon as it began. The Alpha straightened and cleared his throat, obviously wanting John's attention.

John had already limped his way to the overstuffed chair and was grasping his coat in his hands when he heard the younger man speak.

"John…I…" he looked uncertain; an expression ill-fitted on his aristocratic face, "I apologize for my manners, well, lack thereof and would be pleased if you would join me in a cup of tea? It will be my treat, of course."

The blond swallowed back his surprise and glanced down at his coat, then out the window where the cold London night awaited him. He sighed, if Sherlock was willing to ignore John previous fumbling attempt at conversation, then the Omega supposed he could too.

"Yeah, alright," he nodded, a small but genuine smile flitting across his face. "Do you mind if I just sit here?" He motioned to the maroon chair in front of him, as hideous as it was; it was a bit more comfortable than the harsh wooden chairs in the kitchen.

"Oh, of course, make yourself comfortable."

John did so, and shifted about on the cushions till his grouchy hip stopped its grumbling and quieted down. The Omega heard Sherlock shuffling about in the kitchen, opening and closing various doors and tins, but he didn't turn to look behind him, instead he focused on the plethora of scientific books and journals strewn across the dusty surface of the coffee table. Sherlock was a very learned man; that much was apparent in the way he held himself and in his public school accent, but John didn't realize he was such an academic. The blond sifted through a few of the publications, before Sherlock appeared by his side, offering a cup of delicious smelling Earl Grey tea that was just milky enough to be satisfactory. He didn't bother to think how Sherlock knew how he liked his tea, he supposed the man deduced it from the way he wore his jumper or put on his socks or something.

"You didn't have to interrupt your analysis to make me tea." John proffered; a bit of a humble apology, as he was not used to being catered to, even if it was just a cuppa.

Sherlock shrugged and flicked his hand through the air as if swatting a particularly annoying fly before lowering himself into his steel and leather chair. He immediately pulled his knees up to his chest and steepled his fingers underneath his chin, slowly caressing his bottom lip in silent contemplation. Only then did John realize, quite guiltily, that Sherlock hadn't actually made any tea for himself.

"It's nothing. It was sugar anyway, John." The Alpha frowned, turning his gaze to the cold, empty fireplace between them.

John brought the delicate teacup to his lips and took a hesitant sip, it was sweet, but not overly so.

"In my tea?" He took another sip, a larger one this time, since the liquid had cooled sufficiently. John decided it really did taste quite good, and it had been dog's years since he'd had a decent cup of tea.

The apex Alpha exhaled loudly; rolling his eyes and jumping up from the chair that he had just settled in only a moment ago. Was there no end to this man's energy? Just watching the brunet begin to pace back and forth made John feel even more exhausted, and he stifled a yawn against his shoulder.

"No, the pellets John…the _medication_, it was sugar; lactose to be precise, with a bit of plant starch thrown in just for_ fun_, apparently." He placed great emphasis on the word 'fun' as if by its pure existence it taunted him. "So, in the end, after all this, we still have nothing…nothing more than a few sugar pills and dead latent Omegas. We still don't _know_ anything." He paused for a moment, looking at John intently, "I don't like not knowing."

John regarded Sherlock blearily, suddenly feeling sorry for the man. And when the bloody hell had he got so _tired_? John felt exhausted before, but this suddenly went beyond that. He felt as if his entire body had amassed an inordinate amount of weight, so much so that he could barely move. He did manage to swallow down the last dregs of his tea and stretch his legs a bit (with much effort) before attempting to place his cup down on the coffee table. He would have missed by a mile, dropping the porcelain cup upon the woollen rug, if Sherlock hadn't been there to grab his wrist and gently wrest the cup from his grasp.

John blinked up at the man, confused, and slightly bewildered. His consciousness began to take on that hazy, swimmy quality one experienced after having too much drink all at once.

"I…I've…" John tried to stand but for some reason his legs simply would not work (useless things), what good were they if not for walking John about when his brain so commanded it?

"Got…to go-" again John tried to stand, but this time he found himself held in place by Sherlock's large hand on his uninjured shoulder. It was firm but gentle; the expression on the Alpha's face resigned and unyielding.

"You're staying here John. I'll not have you sleeping in that _hovel_ you call an office, not when I've a perfectly good bedroom you can use here."

"No...no, I can't - I..." was the last thing the Omega managed to force from his lips before he collapsed, boneless, slouching backwards into the chair. His head slumped downwards towards his chest, face slackened and jaw slightly open, the stress and hardships of the day gone, his wrinkles smoothed away by slumber (forced though it was).

Sherlock kneeled next to the unconscious Omega and lifted his chin ever so slightly, gently, as if handling a freshly picked honeycomb that could fall apart at the slightest of touches. He allowed himself a moment to just inhale the scent of the constantly wearied man, nestling his nose at the crook of his soft and musky neck. Sherlock knew that John thought his unwashed status was off-putting, but Sherlock found it concentrated his own natural pheromones, making him smell of cloves, salty caramel, and ironically, honey. He could make a home there, he thought, as he ran his thumb across the Omega's delicately curved upper lip.

But he kept all that to himself, of course; locked away, tightly, in a pirate's treasure chest stowed deep, deep in the gallows of his mind palace, only rarely ever opened - and only then to remind himself that love, _sentiment, _was a defect found only on the losing side.

Gently, he moved John's arms to rest at his side and pulled his body forward at the waist, leaning down to grasp around the man's torso and bring him forward, lifting him up and over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Sherlock realized, much to his dismay, that the Omega was incredibly underweight…something he should have to remedy before long, since he had use for the man and still hadn't made up his mind whether it was worth it to keep him around or not.

Slowly, Sherlock made his way up the stairs to the extra bedroom in the attic. It was warmer up there than in the rest of the flat, and John would be much more comfortable resting there, than in Sherlock's own bedroom; and he did so need the rest.

Afterwards, Sherlock returned to his leather chair and sat, unmoving, for hours.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thank you all for continuing to read! I know this chappie is up a little late as I usually try to post on weekends, but time got a bit away from me there. I love reading all your reviews and am quite pleased with the response my wee little story is getting. I may not be able to post next weekend, as I am attending 221B Con and may be otherwise occupied, but I will try! I hope you enjoy this chapter! It was one of my favorite, and also most difficult, to write. Not beta'd or brit-picked, though I do try!**

Under the papery thin veil of his eyelids, John's eyes twitched spontaneously, pupils dilating with dreams.

Deep to his eyes, in the infinitesimal gaps between his neurons, ions and cations made the kamikaze jump between his synapses and shaped those electrical impulses into thoughts and sensory input.

He was sightless…and it didn't matter that he couldn't see, because it's what he _felt_ that was important.

Someone was next to him, blanketing his side, a warm mass of hard flesh and muscles, bones, and hair that together formed a dream companion. He (and John was sure that it was a 'he') writhed lengthwise against John, dragging their large hands up and down his side slowly, inciting a flash of sparks each and every time the diminutive blond inhaled. The Omega felt a prickle overtake his skin, a rolling sensation that began in his calves and ended with the expanse of his scalp as all the hair upon his body stood on end. He shivered through his goose-bumps, eliciting a parasympathetic response that reminded his body that it was time to relax, time to _breed_.

He couldn't shake a wave of confusion though, and his own breath was loud in the obscured space; as was the barely concealed panting of his rather ardent lover. The man's soft mouth fell upon John's left ear, and his rhythmic inhalations reached the crinkly sharp overtones of something that was altogether too close to the Omega's eardrum. John found he could sense where his companion's mouth was regardless of the dark, and turned his head just so, capturing a hot pair of plush lips between his own. The man beside him moaned slightly, and curled his limber hips inwards towards John. The groan was nothing more than a delicate rush of air through his throat, with barely a timbre as to give away his identity. It carried with it a rushing urge of desire, an impending thrill of _want_ that John felt urgently against his left hip.

The blond stifled the impulse to shy away; as if he should be insecure, or embarrassed, or _anything_ besides painfully aroused and desperate. John didn't usually do things like this, or even _dream_ things like this (more's the pity). But here he was, and there _he_ was, and John was distressingly hard and wanted nothing more than to thrust and rut and be _claimed_ by another human being. It had been _so_ _long_, _God_, it'd been so long.

With a whimper born of badly suppressed emotion, John swung his right arm around to grasp and grope the air, searching for the head the lips he currently suckled must be attached to. He was rewarded with a handful of silky, short, riotously curled hair, though he knew not what colour. It didn't matter; he wove his fingers through the satiny strands once, then clenched, painfully pressing the head to his own, deepening the kiss and evoking another startled moan from the shadowy man.

He was glad for the darkness, glad for the lack of sight. He didn't know who the man was, and he was happy that even in his dream, his curly haired partner would not see John's marred and damaged body. Here there was only scent, sound, touch, and taste.

Scent, _oh god_, this was like every library he had ever visited, every spice infused tobacco stall he ever passed in Camden Town. It was the smell of campfires and wood smoke; an acrid but comforting sensation on the back of John's tongue (an Alpha scent, though John couldn't say how he knew).

The other man must taste it as well, when he thrust his thickly muscled tongue into John's mouth possessively. It danced and warred with good doctor's own tongue in a timeless show of Alpha domination, and John was losing (though he was glad for it).

The Omega closed his eyes and succumbed to the motion of the kiss, if one could call it simply a kiss. It seemed more like the meeting of two souls connected only by breath and the touch of one fervent mouth to another. His lover sensed his distraction, and wasted no time in using it to his advantage. He broke off the kiss, and spent a long moment hovering over John's face. They were nose to nose but John still could not see. He sensed the Alpha's radiating warmth and felt his sweet, steaming hot breath caress his bottom lip. The spittle quickly evaporated around John's mouth, and he circled upwards with his hips once, bumping their groins together and reminding the other man of his need.

Go on. I need this. _I need you_.

Sound…with a low, guttural growl, the man grasped John's smaller body and flipped him over onto his stomach. The Omega managed a weak cry as his aching cock brushed sinfully against the silken sheets (silk? they must be silk, nothing else would feel so damn glorious), _Jesus_, he was done for. He rubbed his face against the cool covering of the bed and pumped his hips up and down almost imperceptibly, unable to abstain from wanting to nest and completely lose himself in the sensuality of it all.

Touch (yes, _Jesus_, touch me), a large, strong hand was placed firmly on his lower back and the up and down motion John didn't even realize he was making ceased. The blond frowned and looked behind him, then once again realized it would be for naught, as it was still a complete blackout. There was no outline, no greater swath of darkness, there was nothing only…_Oh_…again there was that hand; warm, skimming its way down from John's back to caress the firm, rounded halves of John's smooth arse. Without any conscious thought, John lifted himself up onto his elbows and knees, impossibly arching the lumbar curve of his back and presenting his needy sex to the mysterious man who_ touched_, and _smelled_, and _breathed_ himself into John.

Please, oh god, _please_…it's been _so long_.

The other hand appeared in quick succession, and John fancied he could feel them quivering, only lightly grasping the Omega's buttery skin; as if the Alpha was afraid a firm hand would send John panicked and fleeing into the dark (he had no need to worry). Each large appendage, with nimble fingers flared, held the globes of John's arse in a proprietary fashion, once he knew his Omega was going nowhere (he was _his_, he belonged to _him_ now). They kneaded and squeezed, the right hand slowly moving lower, clever fingers dragging on John's skin, shifting down and agonizingly closer to the where John wanted (needed) it the most .

He was wet now, of course, and his fragrant, tenacious slick oozed from his hole and down one lightly haired inner thigh. A worshipful hand ran a long finger through its path, gathering the fluid.

Quite suddenly, the man wrapped his left arm around John's torso and pulled him up; he was now kneeling upright, gasping tears of want and mad, crazy desire evident in the vicious thumps of his heart against his chest.

Without warning, John felt something sticky and thick upon his lips, a calloused finger ran its tip against the thin, sensitive tissue around Omega's mouth; and he realized the man was anointing John with his own slick. He wanted John to taste himself.

It only took a half second for John to engulf the man's finger in his hot, supple mouth. He slid all the way down to the third knuckle, swirling his tongue around the pad at the tip, tasting and drinking his own sweet excretions. The man behind him groaned deeply, an incautious and dangerous sound that drove through John's chest in long, slow wavelengths. He tasted like honey, _Jesus Christ_, like the sweetest honey.

John could feel the hardened length of the man behind him. It slipped and slid, luxuriating in John's own slick, thrusting up and down the cleft of John's arse, rubbing shamelessly against his swollen and sensitive entrance. The once sharp breathing stuttered behind him, growing more and more laborious as John suckled his finger and the man's prick found it's friction in John's overheated flesh. His lover squeezed his left arm around John's chest possessively, forcing John to lean backwards against him. John's dampened back was now flush against his Alpha's lean but tautly muscled abdomen. The position opened the Omega's body to the void, leaving his front exposed and John's swollen cock to jut out shamelessly into the darkness.

The man slowly removed his finger from John's mouth, wrinkly and now thick with his own saliva. The Omega bemoaned the loss, but quickly fell prey to his passion and lust-addled panting once more. His chest was tight with desire, with a need he didn't even realize he had anymore. He had spent so long denying all of his baser urges, but now he _needed_…

The hand now travelled slowly down John's short and too slender body, only stopping to swipe along his inner thigh, gathering a more considerable amount of lubrication. John looked towards where he last felt the hand (but of course he saw nothing), and a painful tightness began in his throat while tears welled in his eyes. Then he felt it…a large, generous, warm hand enclosed his cock, giving it a light tug and then squeezing the aching organ in an almost painful manner.

A choked sob erupted from John's kiss plumped mouth…_oh god_, _ohgodohgodohgod_…he raised both his arms and buried his hands in the deliciously curly hair, gripping each side of the Alpha's head and pulling him down into a ferocious kiss that left no desire to the imagination.

Then the man's hand began to pump, up and down, slowly at first, using John's own slick to ease the way. Again, John could not help but thrust his hips helplessly forward and back, even while his mouth remained locked in devotion to his mysterious companion. It wasn't going to take long. John had never been assaulted like this, on every front, robbed of his sight but so very aware of every other sense. He was powerless and unable to fight the growing bubble of bright pleasure that bobbed inside his core. Just another few pulls, another few thrusts…and he would have his release. He would have this. _Finally._

The man ripped his lips away with a gasp and huffed a frantic breath along John's hairline, he sounded almost as destroyed as the Omega. John still felt the Alpha's sizeable prick forcefully dragging itself along the dip of his lower back and John began to realize he must be near his climax as well.

"_John…" _the word was a resonant whisper, a whimper, a cry in the darkness. _"Please let me have you…please."_

The Omega, in his maddened, hormonal stupor, thought the voice should sound familiar. It was deep and low; rumbling and vibrating through the void with the pure strength of its will.

"_Will you do this for me? Will you let me have you…"_ the voice continued; his hips crushed against John's buttocks, his dexterous hand bringing John to his pleasure.

John rocked back and forth, back into himself, and then forward into the void.

"Oh, _God_ yes."

* * *

John woke abruptly, body flushed and shaking; sheets and bed damp with perspiration.

What the _bloody hell_ was that?

The Omega's mind quickly reminded John that it was normal and healthy for all men to have sexual dreams from time to time, but John only shook his head. That was no _normal_ wet dream. That was...that was the single most erotic experience he had had in his life to date (not that that was saying much).

He brought his trembling hands to his head, running his fingers through sweat soaked hair.

_Jesus._

Finally, he closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. He breathed in for five counts, and then exhaled to the same. Each time his nostrils flared, the air brought with it the faint familiar odour of old paper, books, and pipe tobacco. It wasn't helping. It wasn't helping his _situation_ at all.

He groaned and clenched his hands into fists, slamming them ineffectually against the firm mattress. The exercises weren't doing him any good, and they certainly weren't assuaging his raging erection either.

John glared at his manhood with great prejudice, though it was bent and trapped beneath his jeans, the Omega could see the splotch of darkened denim that heralded his leaking pre-ejaculate. Just another couple minutes in that ridiculous dream, and he would have come in his pants like a sex-starved sixth former. Though, he thought ruefully, sex-starved wouldn't be far from the truth. God, he had to pull himself together.

He had to focus.

John blinked hard and brought his eyes up to take in the surrounding area. He was in a smallish room, warm, with the early morning sun streaming in through a tiny square window. Instead of wallpaper, the sides of the room were tinted a light purplish blue (cornflower?) that reflected the weak light and warmed the chilly interior into something cosy and liveable. There was next to nothing for furniture: only the bed he sat upon, and a desk with one rickety chair up against the opposite wall. They both looked ancient, the surface of the lacquered wood marred with scratches and gouges from a hard life, shuffled from one house to the next.

John looked down into his lap again and inhaled deeply. The scent of wood smoke and pipe tobacco filtered in from somewhere, probably the slit under the door, and continued to muddle his brain. If he couldn't get a breath of fresh air, he'd have to do more than try to will his erection away…he'd have to take matters into his own hands, literally. And that was certainly not something he wanted to do with the scent of Sherlock Holmes thick in his nostrils.

Wait. _What?_

Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock_ bloody _Holmes!

That…that _wanker! That stupid, conniving, cock-sucking, dickhead! _

What the _hell _had he done?

John placed his hands to his face, groping along his cheeks and neck until he was sure there was no damage to his head (other than his previous injuries). Then he quickly glanced down to his chest, moving his palms along the almost concave plane of his abdomen and then throwing the snowy white duvet away from his legs. A thankful sigh escaped his lips; he felt, and appeared, unharmed. He was still dressed in his too big jumper and not-quite-clean jeans from…the day before was it? He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, and truth be told, he hadn't slept that well in ages.

But that was neither here nor there. John wracked his brain, trying to recall his last memories from before he passed out, before everything became hazy and soft. John was sat with Sherlock in his living room discussing the case. The madman had been prancing around the kitchen in that ludicrous way of his, making John's mouth water and jaw clench with warring emotions.

The small blond cringed when he remembered the conversation at the kitchen table and the implied rejection. He really should have known better than to try and delve into the romantic life of a creature such as Sherlock Holmes. An apex Alpha like Sherlock simply didn't need a latent Omega slobbering over him like a puppy, and John felt that was exactly what he did, even if _was _subconscious. The good doctor's face flushed with shame and embarrassment. This had the added effect of simultaneously taking care of John's little problem in his pants as well. His erection had waned, the erectile tissue softening and retreating back into its neutral state, untouched and ignored, as per usual.

The blond ruminated a bit longer. He remembered being embarrassed enough to want to flee the flat, but Sherlock asked him to stay and offered a bit of tea. John, like any good Englishman, couldn't pass up a cuppa, so he decided to stay and enjoy a nice treat of Earl Grey…

…_the tea!_

_That damned tea!_ That was it!

He _must_ have put something in John's tea, because it wasn't long after that that John passed out. Then…John looked around once more, this must be the bedroom Sherlock had mentioned. The Alpha must have carried him upstairs while he was unconscious and tucked him in while he slept.

A white hot spear of anger lanced through John's chest. Did Sherlock also kiss his forehead and promise to chase away all the monsters from under the bed as well? That…that _cock!_

John launched himself from the mattress, ignoring the indignant squeak the bed made at the movement. How _dare_ he! John was not a pet, he was not a toy, and he certainly was not some kind of…of _experiment! _Apex Alpha or not, Sherlock Holmes needed to be taught a lesson. Just like his army buddies, before they came to accept him for who he was, Sherlock needed to learn a few more things about John Watson.

He took a few angry steps towards the door before an overpowering wave of dizziness crashed inside his skull. He breathed through the sensation, knowing full well this was just an after effect of the drug (benzodiazepine maybe?). After a few moments, the dizziness lessened and John purposefully settled his face into the most neutral and innocent expression he could muster.

Oh yes, Sherlock would pay, but John wanted him to be surprised as well. He wanted to see the look of shock bloom across his beautiful face when he realized angering one John Watson was simply _not_ a good idea.

The Omega reached out and turned the dull, brassy doorknob. It twisted easily in his grip, and the door opened with nary a creak. He was grateful for this, although he was certain Sherlock already knew he was awake (that man didn't seem to miss a thing), he didn't want to telegraph his movements more than necessary.

The good doctor stilled a moment on the dimly lit landing above the top flight of stairs. He could hear a low murmur, most assuredly Sherlock's voice, ebb and flow around the space below him. It appeared he was on his mobile, and the conversation was unpleasant. John cracked his knuckles. Good.

He puffed his chest out once, inhaling deeply and preparing himself. This would be short, but quick. He would get his voice heard, and then he would be done with it. He would be done with it all. No more British government, no more strange pills, no more Aphas with artfully tousled curls, sinful lips, and opalescent eyes to trouble him any further. They could do this on their own. John had taken enough abuse over the past few weeks. This time he had made up his mind completely.

With his decision firmly in mind, John began his descent, only distantly hearing the stair that squeaked underfoot and unquestionably heralded his arrival to the apex Alpha stood in the hallway door to the kitchen.

John was correct, Sherlock was speaking to someone on his mobile, and his handsome faced carried an unpleasant, pinched quality that should have alarmed the Omega. But he paid it no never mind. John stood stiffly by the last stair, only about two metres away from Sherlock, who stared at the good doctor like a dying man stairs at a fresh flowing stream of water. Though he continued to speak into the mobile, it was patently clear that all his attention was on the diminutive blond in front of him.

For the first time, John wondered exactly what kind of picture he made standing there; rumpled, clothes mussed, with pillow lines on his face from sleeping too long (though he was still unsure as to how long he was unconscious). He would have cringed under Sherlock's smouldering gaze, if not for his righteous anger and primal urge to beat the bloody daylights out of the tall man. As it was, he stuck his hands in his pockets innocently and waited for Sherlock to finish his conversation.

"Yes, I hear you," Sherlock quipped, speaking to the man on the other end of the line, "and are you _quite_ sure it matches the others?" The Alpha swept his gaze over John's small body, taking in his clothing and demeanour, and probably reading all of his inner most secrets at the same time. He turned on one heel and sauntered into the kitchen in that uncomplicated way of his, as if he were untouchable, above it all. John followed.

"Well if you're certain, then I'll be there," he answered; then scrunched up his face in sudden distaste, "No I don't need a _car! _We'll be by in a cab." Sherlock pulled the iPhone away from his cheek and hung up on the other party without so much as a goodbye. His back was now to the Omega, and John clenched his right hand into a fist as adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream, now was the time.

Sherlock turned back round to John, a small smile on his face. He seemed excited and opened his mouth to begin speaking before John hauled back and punched the deceitful bastard _dead in the face._

He made sure to avoid the nose and teeth, he didn't want to do any lasting damage after all, but he knew his aim was true when Sherlock's head cracked viciously over his right shoulder and he stumbled backwards, only managing not to fall by grabbing the sides of the worn green kitchen table. Sherlock was dazed, stung, his knees bent and his face a battlefield of emotions: hurt, surprise, anger, dismay, all of which vied for dominance.

John took advantage of the Alpha's disorientation and grabbed the conniving bastard by his collar. He leaned in, voice dipped low and dangerous. Sherlock may have thought him meek and easily manipulated, but now he was going to learn the truth.

"You listen to me, and you listen to me good, yeah? If you ever, _ever_, pull another stunt like that again, a black eye will be the least of your problems. _Do you understand?_ I may be an Omega, but I_ am_ a soldier; and God help you if I decide you ever deserve more than a blow to the face."

Sherlock's verdigris eyes widened comically, his mouth worked in surprise as if he didn't quite know how to respond (must be a first for him), "You…but you…you're a doctor…," as if that would exclude the fact that John couldn't inflict grievous bodily harm upon another person as simply as he could bat an eyelash.

The Omega squeezed Sherlock's collar between his fists, knuckles blanched white with the force of his grip, _"I've had bad days!"_


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank you all for continuing to read, follow, favorite, and comment on my wee lil ficcie! You all keep me going! Feel free to message me if you have any questions, or just want to talk! :3**

Sherlock pressed the makeshift ice compress gently onto his left cheekbone. It had begun to swell, and would result in a most glorious bruise that John's former hand-to-hand instructor would have been quite proud of. The Alpha himself winced a bit, moving the muscles in his face to check for any other damage (although John had already taken a good look and declared him 'not going to die'), of which there was none, unless you counted bruised Pride.

There was also a small cut just beneath the brunet's eye that John had cleaned, but deemed stitches unnecessary. It was obvious Sherlock wanted to argue; he even opened his mouth to try and speak before John flashed him with a truly monstrous expression.

Now they sat at the cluttered green kitchen table, staring intensely at each other, neither one wanting to be the first to delve deeper into what just happened and the events of the previous night. Sherlock, besides his swollen cheekbone and irreparably wrinkled dress shirt, appeared stoic and stone-faced. John himself sat with arms crossed and face set with a perma-scowl that might take weeks to resolve.

The tension grew even denser between them, until the buzzing of Sherlock's phone cut through the air, causing both men to lurch forward in their seats, surprised and shocked out of their protracted staring contest.

Sherlock lifted the phone to his ear in one elegant sweep, still not taking his jewelled eyes off the Omega sat across from him.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered, the almost unnoticeable tremor in his voice the only hint as to the near fight he had just recovered from, "…yes, I said I would be there. I know time is of the essence, for God's sake Lestrade; I'm not one of your idiotic team members. I said I will be there and I will be there," a pause, to which Sherlock sighed impatiently, "then tell Anderson to keep his incompetent paws away from the body until I get there. I'm leaving now. Yes. Fine."

He pressed the touchscreen on the phone with a frown; a sharp click accompanied the action and the glow from the screen went blank. The alpha frowned and then grimaced suddenly in pain. He stood quickly, long legs stretching themselves in distractingly well-tailored trousers, and dumped the ice pack into the sink with a loud clatter, each piece of ice slipping and sliding against the ceramic surface before settling into the drain.

The Omega, who had been silently brooding all this time (quietly wondering why he was still even in this blasted kitchen with this blasted man), finally found his voice, "So there's been another killing? Is it…a latent? Is it related to the case?" The Alpha was difficult and surly most of the time anyways, so his behaviour right now didn't seem to be out of the ordinary. John, however, was beginning to regret his hasty actions.

It wasn't long ago that he had mentally reprimanded himself for losing control, and his temper, in front of a Holmes. He was just…Sherlock was just so…John couldn't really explain it. Sherlock was amazing, intoxicating, fascinating, brilliant, and infuriating; John could barely control his own mind, let alone his body, when he was around the perplexing apex Alpha. It didn't help that his ridiculous pheromones permeated every corner of this flat and rolled off the Alpha in invisible, vaporous waves, reaching into John's brain and inciting the Omega into rash decisions and inappropriately racy dreams. Plus he was ethereally beautiful. If they hadn't discussed it briefly last night, John was sure he'd have droves of Omegas prostrating themselves at his feet. John reluctantly admitted that, in another world and another time maybe, he would have been one of them.

He ran his dirty hands across his equally dirtied face, waiting for the silent Alpha to answer his question. But Sherlock only stood stiffly, his slender back towards John, apparently lost in thought. After a moment, he turned around slowly, eyeing the good doctor in a way that John knew for sure spelled trouble.

"You're an Army doctor…seen a lot of action, a lot of violent deaths, I suppose."

This wasn't exactly what John was expecting, "Yes, yes I have...enough for a lifetime, far too much."

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock prompted, leaning towards the Omega, his voice low and seductive. It didn't matter that the man was so close John could practically taste the Alpha's spice on his tongue, or roll his smoky essence around in his mouth. John couldn't have said no even if he wanted to.

And then it hit him. It hit him so hard that John was glad he was sitting because the force of the realization was so sudden and intense he was sure, had he been standing, he would have fallen (or fainted, like the delicate Victorian ladies of old).

He was smitten. He was taken with this man. Even after everything that had just happened; his duplicitous heart had latched onto the one person John knew he could probably never have.

_He fancied Sherlock Holmes._

He, John Watson, a homeless war veteran was in love with an apex Alpha that was so far out of his league he might as well be taking up residence in the very bottom of the Marianas Trench.

A knot of visceral pain curdled in his abdomen, taking probable permanence between his heart and stomach. Is this what it felt like to realize you loved someone and know they would never love you in return? Was this heartbreak? What was the latent Omega to do now? He felt a familiar prickling behind his eyes and blinked quickly, pushing the impromptu feelings down and away, swallowing the sharp lump in his throat and returning his attention to Sherlock.

After John failed to answer his question (John himself being somewhat stricken and battling with an internal array of emotions Sherlock might never understand), the Alpha took his silence as a 'Yes,' and quickly strode from the kitchen to seize his Belstaff. He donned the heavy coat with appropriate grandeur, pulled his gloves on one long finger at a time, pocketed his phone and then finally turned his attention to the suddenly reserved Omega.

The Alpha narrowed his eyes, his face taking on that intense look of concentration when he rapidly deduced a particularly convoluted puzzle. Whatever he decided, whatever solution formed in his mind, he shared with no one. Sherlock flared his nostrils, inhaling deeply as he moved back towards John.

"John?" He asked gently, more gently that he would usually.

At this point, John had managed to stuff down his life-changing revelation into a little red ball in the pit of his stomach. He would deal with all this later, no need to complicate things now.

"What? Oh…oh yeah. I just...I'm fine, yeah?" He forced a wan smile on his pale face, but stood and took in Sherlock's readiness to leave, outerwear in place et al.

"Yeah, I'll just…" he looked around the living room uselessly until he located his own worn canvas jacket. John pulled it from the hook and slung it inelegantly across his thin shoulders. It wouldn't do to compare himself to Sherlock Holmes, but dammit, he just couldn't help it. For once he wished he had some nice clothes, or maybe had had the chance to shower and change before running out of the flat once more.

Oblivious to John's morose thoughts, Sherlock strode into the hallway and down the stairs, long legs taking him down much faster than John's ever could. The Omega considered asking him to wait, but he just sighed and limped down as fast as his bum hip would take him. He was lucky he didn't slip and tumble to his death, although that was more than just a little bit tempting after the epiphany he had had upstairs in the kitchen. It would certainly end his misery; John had never been one to pine over an Alpha, after all. John had never been the kind to pine after _anyone_, for that matter.

When things didn't work out with Mary (well not so much as not worked out but, purposefully shut down by Mr. Morstan), he held his chin high and moved on with his life. He found the courage to hide his Omega latency and finish medical school, eventually finding himself on his way into the RAMC. When things ended badly with James Sholto, he was angry, _incensed_ even, but he moved on quickly and rarely spared a thought towards the man nowadays.

But this man, Sherlock Holmes, this man could _ruin_ him.

When John finally found his way to the heavily lacquered front door, Sherlock was stood on the sidewalk waiting, a black cab idling at the kerb. A faint look of annoyance settled on the Alpha's face, but John paid it no never mind; the man knew he couldn't move very fast, so he could just be patient or leave without John, his choice. Sherlock held the door open for the blond and prompted him to enter first; again, thoughts of fragile Victorian damsels flitted across his mind, and the Omega scowled. But he did manage to climb into the cab after all, his hip twinging as his right leg was forced to turn at an odd angle for a moment. Then he finally got settled in.

Sherlock slid in next to him, his movements as smooth and fluid as usual, and shut the door. Almost immediately, the Alpha pulled out his phone and began to text as he gave the cabbie an address John was only vaguely familiar with. The cab pulled away from the kerb with a lurch and accompanying cloud of petrol exhaust as they both made their way to the crime scene.

* * *

The last time Sherlock and John had shared a cab, it was a drawn out, silent, uncomfortable affair. John had sat stiffly on his side of the seat, and Sherlock kept his nose to his phone as if John barely existed. Though the Omega was mildly acquainted with the address, he knew it was all the way across London, and (against his better judgment) he thought maybe this time he'd strike up a conversation with the apex Alpha.

After all, he really knew very little about this madman he had unwisely fallen in love (or lust, or whatever) with. It would only serve him well if he could uncover some dark and horrible secret about Sherlock, something that could destroy this overwhelming _want_ inside him, pierce his heart and let it shrivel up and die like the useless and inconvenient thing that it was. He cleared his throat after a moment and then licked his lips, an unconscious action he had never managed to get control of.

"So, why did you do it then?" He regarded Sherlock from across the seat, deep oceanic eyes questioning.

John could be wrong, but the brunet appeared to stiffen, the languorous line of his body hardened and he purposefully did not look at the slight blond.

"Hmm?" He hummed in response, feigning ignorance and distraction.

John sighed in exasperation, "Sherlock, you know what I mean. _Why_ did you do it?"

Their confrontation this morning had been intense. John was justifiably enraged and thinking purely with his fists; but afterwards, when he had calmed, the doctor in him kicked in and he tended to Sherlock with a quick and gruff manner. He did not apologize. That was something he flat out _refused_ to do. One does _not_ apologize for being drugged.

But, they hadn't talked about it at all. John knew Sherlock wasn't the type for flowery explanations and, let's face it, normal human communication. Regardless, they needed to get this out in the open because, frankly, it was just _not on_ to drug people.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and jammed his phone in his pocket, it was clear he did not want to have this conversation.

"John, that first night I met you, I mentioned you had a background in the Army. You seemed surprised."

"Yes, how did you know?" John was intrigued, that was an emotional night for many parties involved, not the least of which was John himself. Sherlock had rattled off deduction after deduction, and the Omega was suitably impressed…until Sherlock mentioned his service the Army.

"I didn't know I saw," Sherlock continued in his crisp public school diction, the kind that made John's heart thump a little harder and left hand flex unconsciously, "You're a trained doctor, that much is obvious since first I met you. My homeless network actually calls you the 'Good Doctor' so no real deduction needed there. When I came across you in that alley the first night, it became clear you knew how to fight, and I'm not talking about dirty pub-type fighting, but actual grappling and hand to hand combat. Most doctors usually don't receive that kind of training. When I brought you back to my flat, you were unconscious and mumbling; you mentioned a Major Sholto, a rather large clue there, as you can see. When you woke and cleaned up, I noticed you had taken the clippers to your hair in what is known as 'military regulation' or close to it. It comforts you, to revert back to your military ways, or as near to it as possible. You have a wound to your left shoulder and another to your right hip. As I obviously have not seen you unclothed I cannot ascertain as to what caused these wounds, though your limp is rather prominent and your hip pains you more often than not. So," he paused then, glancing at John, his eyes glowing vividly in the muted light of the cab, "an Army Doctor honourably discharged due to injuries sustained in battle. Easy."

John was at a loss for words, and it clearly showed on his expressive face. That was…

"Amazing," he managed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, feeling rather exposed and laid quite bare, "but it still doesn't answer my question."

The Alpha continued his prolonged eye-contact, and John stared back in kind. He couldn't pull his eyes away from this enigmatic man if his life depended on it.

"You choose to be homeless John, oh don't give me that look. Frankly, I don't care what you do with your life. But that does take into question as to how you received those wounds. Doctors are caregivers, and it's not surprising that one such as yourself chose the RAMC, since besides your doctoring tendencies you also have an unfulfilled penchant for danger. Were you trying to save someone, when you were wounded? _Oh_…of course you were. _Of course_. Always the martyr, John," the Alpha's face seemed to soften for a second, but John couldn't be too sure, as it was gone in a moment, replaced by a coldness that was more appropriate for Sherlock, "the people you take care of out on the streets, they love you for it. You give them your pension, and keep little for yourself. I'm sure you tried to make a decent life when you were discharged; perhaps you even thought you could practice medicine again. But the social stigma surrounding latent Omegas of your age, though anachronistic, still abound. I'm sure the Army supplied a place to stay…some horrid little one room bedsit or some such, but I can barely imagine a man such as yourself being satisfied with that kind of life. So when your bank account ran low, as I'm sure it did, what did you do? You went to the streets. You found others of your ilk, younger ones that needed protection and care more than what they could find at some shelter or public home. You care for others John, deeply, but you do not care for yourself. Not nearly enough. I drugged your tea because you were exhausted, overworked, underfed, and too proud to admit you needed help. I thought a good night's rest would benefit you both in mind and body, I didn't realize I'd get punched in the face for my troubles."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side then, eyes looking out into the misty London scenery, "although looking back now, I guess I should have expected it. You do have a temper and quite a tendency for violence."

John sat and stared at the Alpha in abject distress, while Sherlock had already resumed his ubiquitous texting on his phone, as if he hadn't just gutted the blond right down the middle.

He wasn't expecting that…_any of that_.

How the _hell_ was he supposed to respond? The Omega swallowed convulsively, the cab suddenly feeling too hot and too small to be comfortable. His heart hammered in his throat, the tips of his fingers tingled, and his chest felt too tight. He was about to have a panic attack, he was about to have a damn panic attack in front of Sherlock in a damn cab. Sweat began gathering at the nape of his neck, darkening the slightly curling locks of blond hair that brushed against the collar of his grimy sweater. He dropped his chin and looked down into his lap, both his hands were fisted, and his breathing came in uneven gasps. He hadn't had a panic attack since he'd first come back from Afghanistan, when his dreams were loud, raucous things full of mortar shells and screams of the dying.

A sudden, dense wave of calming pheromones assaulted the Omega, and John felt a large, cool hand place itself on the back his clammy neck. The hand pushed his head forward gently, ever so slightly coaxing the blond to bend forward and place his dampened head between his knees.

"Breathe John," a sibilant whisper in his ear, Sherlock's voice so low and quiet one could swear it was subsonic, "breathe for me."

And John did, he breathed in to five counts, and then exhaled to the same. In this moment he felt so_ weak_…so _damaged_. Gone was the furious bravado that prompted him to clock an apex Alpha in his face, gone was the bravery that had him step into an alleyway to protect a fifteen year old kid against two men twice his size. Here was John Watson as he was just after he came back to London, scared, unsure, struggling with life, purpose, and just enough PTSD to keep himself miserably awake at night.

He breathed in to a count of five, and then exhaled to the same.

After what seemed like an eternity, his heart calmed, the knot in the pit of his stomach released and he was able to think clearly again. The Alpha's hand was now a warm, comforting weight on his back; having shifted when John bent down to prevent hyperventilation. For a few moments, John could imagine the hand moved in slow, soothing circles, but he couldn't be sure as the warmth soon disappeared, leaving behind a cold hand-shaped void.

"Are you alright?" The Alpha asked; something similar to concern in his voice. Sherlock's voice was soft, the timbre low and intimate, and John felt that (just for a moment) they were the only two people that mattered. There was no one else, just the two of them against the rest of the world. The thought supplied him with a modicum of comfort and he managed a weak smile, just a twitch at the corner of his lips, and nodded.

"Good, we're here." And it was as if a switch was flipped. Sherlock's tone was brisk and business-like once more as he paid the cabbie, opening the door and leaping out in quick succession. John was left in the cab, his breathing finally regulated to normal parameters, before he slowly sidled his way out of the car.

The scene set before him was like something out of a crime novel, or an incredibly realistic police series. There were several panda cars parked near an alleyway and John could feel the heavy dampness of the air around him. He surmised they must be somewhere closer to the Thames, though quite a bit further east than his current haunt near the bridge. People milled about, some talking on their mobiles, others filling out paperwork against metal clipboards. The black Coroner's van was situated quite a ways down the alley, and there was no sign of Sherlock.

John sighed and began to feel more than a little grumpy. It had been an emotionally tumultuous day and he didn't care to be left behind. He limped through the gathering crowd; most people ignored him or didn't even care to acknowledge his existence. After all, he was a small man, non-descript, wearing nothing more than a dingy canvas jacket and dirty jeans. John couldn't be more invisible if he actively tried.

The scene itself was cordoned off with ghastly bright yellow and black CAUTION tape, strewn every which way and just this side of haphazard. Standing next to the tape, looking like she'd rather be somewhere else, was a tall Alpha woman with curly hair the colour of coffee with a touch of cream at the tips. Her face, though relatively attractive, was rather pinched, and her brown eyes looked tired. She held a radio in her right hand and every once in a while pushed the button and spoke into the contraption in short, terse sentences. Several yards behind her, gesticulating wildly, prowling around and speaking to a man wearing a long, drab trench coat was Sherlock. The other man, older and with salted brown hair, looked exhausted, stretched thin, and at his wits end.

John waited by the tape, hovering around the perimeter and wondering if Sherlock would remember he was even here, or if he should start making his way back to the bungalow…however far away that may be. The Omega craned his head a little further to peer past the detritus on the ground and possibly garner a look at the body.

His blood suddenly ran cold, his heart dropped dead into his stomach and he blanched noticeably. The young woman standing by the tape turned her weary gaze towards the blond and furrowed her brow in confusion.

"Sir…excuse me! This is an active crime scene and I am going to have to ask you to leave." She took a heeled step towards him, crowding into his space.

John didn't hear her; he didn't even seem to recognize she had spoken to him. His navy blue gaze was fixed immovably on the body lying supine on the squalid concrete. He knew that hoodie, he knew those worn jeans, and he knew that _face_.

"Oh my god, _Jimmy_."


	11. Chapter 11

Captain John H. Watson was no stranger to the horrors of war. In fact, the atrocities he'd seen committed by both sides (enemy and allies alike) were so firmly entrenched in his mind; they had a disturbing habit of bubbling up from his psyche in the darkest hours of the night. They wrested his peace and sleep from him, replacing his slumber with blood, sand, murky water, and peal after peal of gunfire.

_That_ he was used to…_that_, at least, he could handle.

_This_ was something altogether different.

When John finally realized the tall lady cop was addressing him, crowding into his space and demanding he back off or identify himself; he had already shut down and gone into full emotionless army doctor mode (significantly different from the 'Good Doctor' moniker everyone was so keen to thrust upon him). This was not the same attitude he employed for patient visits or helping the wastrels under the bridge, this was a self-defense mechanism. This was for his own protection; when the injustices of life became too great and leaving himself raw and open to the tragedies of life was no longer an option.

"Excuse me?" He eventually turned his gaze towards the woman with the aggressive attitude and comically large teeth. Her Alpha pheromones practically knocked him sideways as she gave him a long, rather unappreciative, look up and down his small frame.

"I said; this is an official crime scene. We don't allow civilians or whoever you are to hang about and gawk. Now tell me who you are or _bugger off!_"

"He's with me, Sally." Sherlock's deep and sonorous voice caught John's attention and he immediately looked over to the tall self-proclaimed detective standing on the other side of the blue and white tape (I'm on one side, he's on the other, isn't that appropriate?).

"I'm…I'm a…a colleague," John offered by way of explanation, now that he had found his voice.

"A colleague?!" The woman, Sally, scoffed incredulously, "…how do _you_ get a colleague?" She looked pointedly back at Sherlock. "Did _he_ follow you home?"

She was referring to John, the blond realized. As if John had somehow followed the devastatingly handsome Alpha back to his house like some broken down dog. A flush of shame and humiliation crept up his neck to stain his cheeks and ears. He glared down at the fractured cement at his feet, taking in his second-hand brogues, cracked and ready to fall apart with any strong sprint. It was a glaring reminder of his station in life, one he didn't plan on forgetting again.

"Um…look, maybe I should just go…"

"No." Sherlock pulled the POLICE tape up and over John's head. Then he stood there in silence, his striking eyes boring holes into John's skull. He didn't have to say another word to get his point across; John was to follow the man, regardless of what the tetchy woman said.

Sally crossed her arms; then turned away with a sigh, disgusted. She quickly moved away from them and towards another small crowd beginning to form on the other end of the alleyway. John could hear her commanding voice telling them to '_move on_' as he ducked under the tape and followed the brunet.

With each painful step bringing him towards what remained of Jimmy, John could feel the Army Doctor settling firmly into place. It was a comfort to revert back to a familiar military mind-set, Sherlock was right about that, and John could use some comfort at this moment.

Sherlock glanced at him sideways under his long dark lashes, before kneeling towards the body and looking at John expectantly.

"I'm not sure what you want Sherlock, I'm not a forensics expert." The Omega lowered himself painfully down on his left knee, grimacing as his right hip screeched in protest. He finally took in fully the still form of his last patient, one Jimmy Price, latent Omega and eighteen year old former runaway.

His body was laid out, twisted and cold on the wet pavement. He was still clothed, though most of his hoodie was stiff and cracked with burgundy splotches of blood covering almost the entire surface of the fabric wrapped tight around his abdomen. His ragged jeans also had smatterings of bloodstains at the waist, the rest of the denim around his knees and calves were free of the dark fluid. His trainers, though well worn, seemed untouched.

John's critical gaze swept up over the boy's shoulders and then into the poor wretch's face. Jimmy's bloodless lips were cracked at the sides; small flecks of brownish flakes peppered the left side of his pale cheek. At first guess, John thought it looked like vomit more than blood, but it was hard to tell for sure. The body didn't yet have that sweet, cloyingly putrid smell of the long dead, so he knew it was relatively fresh.

All of this aside, the most gruesome feature of the body (as if the body alone wasn't disturbing enough) was the large, deep, clotted hole in between his eyes. It had its own strange shine to it, like the Omega's head was full of rare uncut rubies instead of brain matter and viscera.

John reeled back from the sight and inhaled deeply. He suddenly felt a little dizzy, even though death and gore was nothing new to the erstwhile soldier. There was something different about this body though, something different about having to see Jimmy bloodied and sacrificed to the pavements of London that struck him deep inside his soul. Those that lost their lives in the sands of Afghanistan had gone to War, they had volunteered, they knew the danger and they knew the risks.

But Jimmy…he was just a _kid_, he wasn't a soldier. He didn't deserve this.

"You must be John." A gruff voice sounded above the Doctor. It had a thick eastern London flair to it, and John looked up to meet the brown eyes of the older Beta Sherlock had been speaking to earlier, "Sherlock told me about you, some kind of doctor, he said. You responsible for the uh…" he motioned to his own face, putting a thick finger just underneath his left eye, referencing the remnants of the little tussle he had had with Sherlock earlier that morning. John nodded gamely, looking back at the detective, who was still taking in the body and didn't bother to raise his head towards the man.

The Beta appeared amused for half a second, "Good on you, mate. You've both got three minutes." He tossed a pair of nitrile gloves towards the Omega, who caught them with a quick hand, then trudged away to speak with a rather weaselly looking Beta tagging evidence about ten meters away.

John snapped on the gloves, his face grim. "Who was that then?"

Sherlock inhaled, gently poking and prodding Jimmy's stiff hoodie. "That…is Detective Inspector Lestrade. It's usually his cases I consult on…he's the least idiotic of the DI's I've come to know."

The Alpha gripped the thick cotton fabric between his fingers and pulled it back from the boy's abdomen, revealing a ten centimetre vertical cut near the lower part of his belly. It was not unlike an incision used for a hysterectomy (though sometimes these incisions were also horizontal), it was in the correct place and long enough to remove the organ and ovaries. Unlike the head wound, however, it was clean and neat. Whoever did this had done it with precision and knowledge of male Omega anatomy (which was quite a bit different from a female Omega).

"It fits the others then." John murmured, remembering what Sherlock had told him about the previous bodies. If there was any doubt in his mind that the dead Omegas and the fertility study were somehow connected, it was gone now. They just had to find out why. Why was this happening?

"Indeed." Sherlock stood quickly, creating a waft of air that fluttered about Jimmy's limp fringe. John, took one more despairing look at the dead boy and carefully raised himself up as well, absently massaging his right hip a bit…he would feel the worst of that later tonight.

The brunet had already caught the attention of the wearied man in the trench-coat, DI Lestrade it seemed, and began to speak rapidly.

"Jimmy Price, you have his identification already, I know. Homeless, latent Omega and participating in that study I told you about three weeks ago. Do you remember?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a condescending fashion, knowing full well the DI probably had much on his plate and might not remember a stray comment from the apex Alpha that he only begrudgingly allowed on his crime scenes.

"Huh…" Lestrade ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair, "something about fertility and dead bodies?" He offered lamely; it was clear he didn't remember.

With a sigh borne of great frustration (and drama), Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to pace.

"I met with you just three weeks ago with some evidence I had collected-"

"Oh yeah, you mean the evidence that you _stole_, Sherlock, don't tiptoe around it. It's all coming back to me now. Anytime you want to bring that back yeah, it getting harder and harder to keep your involvement in these cases quiet around the Yard you know."

"Oh please," Sherlock quipped testily, "you know very well I'm the _only_ reason you've solved even a fraction of your cases!"

"Alright you listen here…" Lestrade's voice lowered angrily, one finger pointed straight into Sherlock's aristocratic face, "I've been a DI longer than you've even-"

"Alright, _alright_…_ladies_…can we not do this here?!" John limped wearily up to them both, nudging his chin towards the dead body, which was in the midst of being collected and bagged to be taken to the Medical Examiner, probably St. Bart's.

Sherlock frowned and looked down at John, then back at the body, then back at Lestrade, all in quick succession. For a moment the vivid light in his eyes dimmed, "Not good?" He queried; eyes only on John now.

The Omega sighed, wondering what the hell he was going to do with this ridiculous man (or himself, for that matter).

"A bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock glanced away then, a little bereft. But the look was fleeting, and he was back into full frantic rapid deduction pace faster than John could even realize what had happened.

"Lestrade, I believe this murder and the murder of several other young, male, latent Omegas over the last several months are linked. I believe they all participated in the same fertility study, and I believe those that conduct this study prey on the homeless to stay undetected and, until now, practically invisible."

Lestrade watched solemnly as they loaded Jimmy's body, now zipped into the requisite black body bag, into the coroner's van and swung the doors closed.

"Go on," the older man breathed.

"My brother and I haven't been able to glean much more than that, though he is working it at a different angle than I. Needless to say, we've had few breakthroughs in our own investigations, and I am currently trying to find someone on the inside…someone I can work with who has access to the study and it's facility."

Sherlock fell silent and regarded Lestrade with a look that was both pleading and meaningful. John wasn't sure what was silently communicated between the two men, but he now knew what he had to do.

"I'll do it." His voice was quiet, yet firm. As a former soldier, and a doctor, he could no longer straddle the grey are between the greater good and what was only good for John Watson. What was is that Sherlock said in the cab? _'Always the martyr, John.'_

Maybe he was, maybe in the end...that was his purpose after all.

Lestrade looked dubious at best. Sherlock looked shocked (something John rarely ever saw on his handsome face); which John thought was slightly hilarious, since it was Sherlock and Mycroft themselves that had come up with the idea. Had Sherlock changed his mind? Now that he knew more about John, did he not think him steady or strong enough to pull this off? Granted, John had hardly been at his best lately, but let it not be said the John H. Watson couldn't rise to the occasion if he needed to.

"John-" The apex Alpha began.

"Yeah, I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that." Lestrade spoke directly over Sherlock, taking a step towards the Omega at the same time. He ran his eyes up and down John, much like that Alpha woman did earlier, and clearly found something in John wanting.

"Why not?" The blond tried to stand tall and proud, he may not be the fittest specimen out of them all, but he was no slouch. If his heart was still beating, he could answer the call, "Sherlock already said they target the homeless," he faltered a bit at that, realizing he had just confirmed his vagrancy to a DI no less, but continued on bravely, "plus I'm a male latent Omega of the right age. I could go in, do what I can. I'm not stupid. I'm a doctor…they won't be able to pull anything over on me. I wouldn't let them."

Throughout John's speech, Sherlock watched him with soft eyes and an unreadable expression. Lestrade still didn't seem convinced and opened his mouth to reply when John stuck out his chin pugnaciously.

"You know I don't need your permission. I'll do it whether or not you agree." He crossed him arms, just begging the older Beta to continue arguing.

"John," Sherlock finally spoke, voice unsure and wavering, "…um, the original circumstances of my plan have changed somewhat. There are other ways you can assist in the investigation, if you wish…you don't have to-"

John breathed a frustrated puff of air out into the late afternoon sunlight, "I can't believe this!" He threw his hands up, taking a step back from both men and glaring at Sherlock, "I finally give in, after you practically begged me _twice_, and now you're saying…what exactly? I'm not good enough? You don't think I can do it?"

He was only barely controlling his anger now, half of himself wanting to desperately bolt from the situation and the other half feeling the need to defend his usefulness.

Sherlock's mouth flopped open like a fish gasping for air, "I've never begged for anything in my life!"

"_Twice!_" John repeated, left fist clenching at his side.

The apex Alpha didn't respond, and Lestrade only looked back and forth between the two like he had somehow stumbled into the middle of a domestic.

"Right. Um. Look, whatever you two decide, keep me informed alright. I want to help, and do what I can, but I'm not willing to put civilians into any unnecessary danger. John, was it? Hash this out," he motioned between them, "and then one of you give me a call. I'll have Molly update you on the findings as soon as she can, Sherlock."

The Beta jammed his hands into his pockets and stepped quickly away, loudly commanding and motioning towards his team, who were doing their best to pretend like none of them were listening to the exchange between the three men.

John continued to glower, and Sherlock had the good sense to look a wee bit chagrined.

"John…if you're very sure-"

"I'm sure, Sherlock. I can do it, and now I know that I want to. This can't happen again, not to anyone else, not if there is something I can do about it." He set his chin, clenching his jaw.

"Fine." The dark-haired man answered gruffly, turning on one heel and rapidly walking away from the Omega.

* * *

John absently fingered the pamphlet, entering the mobile number included at the bottom into his new (but demonstrably less sparkly now) iPhone. Across the living room, both looking quite serious and attentive, the Holmes brothers sat, staring at the blond in anticipation.

This was the first step in the plan, the 'in' as it were. John was to phone the number included on the flyer and make an appointment; everything hinged on making sure he was accepted into the study. After all, medical studies had parameters, and though John qualified for the most basic ones listed on the paper, there may be others that disqualified him. He expected a full physical, blood tests, even a pregnancy test (which was ridiculous, considering he was latent), but he knew people tended to be quite litigious if every mark wasn't checked and every 't' crossed.

He hazarded a glance to the two very quiet Alpha's hanging upon his every movement and breathed in.

"Alright, can we be a little less severe right now? I'm only making a phone call, after all, and you're both making me nervous." He rolled his eyes, and even though he tried not to make it obvious, he was fairly sure the he couldn't hide that from the two most observant men in the free world.

"Our only concern is your safety, John," Mycroft's low tones rolled across the room, "I will have my men record and trace the conversation, of course. It's a place to start."

John flinched inwardly at his words, he was pretty sure that as part of the interview process he'd have to share some pretty private information he'd rather the Holmes brothers not know (or record and listen to over, and over).

Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound he supposed.

Actually, he wasn't sure which was his biggest concern at this point: the divulging of private information or the fact that Mycroft Holmes already had his mobile bugged, apparently. Sherlock remained silent, leaning back on the couch, hands steepled with the tips of his fingers resting gently against his full bottom lip.

John lightly pressed the glass screen, activating the phone icon and leaning back in the maroon armchair. A slight delay, and then a few seconds later a tinny ring sounded into his ear. It only took a few rounds before the call was answered by a somewhat bored sounding receptionist (he guessed).

"Good evening, Highlands Centre, which extension please?"

"Um, yes, good evening, number 895...?" John flicked a self-conscious glance towards the two brothers, neither of which had moved.

"Thank you, hold please." Another few clicks and rings and this time it was answered by a warm sounding young man.

"Warumomo Corporation, this is Jeremy, how can I help you?"

"Yes, hello, um…my name is John and I was looking, um…" he fidgeted unconsciously, clearing his throat, "I was interested in the fertility study? I um, saw it on a flyer, can you help me?"

The man on other side brightened audibly. "Of course! I just need to take a few bits of information and schedule an initial consultation and we'll be all set. Your full name, please?"

"John H. Watson." They had discussed using a possible alias, but John was a nobody and affiliated with no one. He was homeless, it wouldn't really make a difference if he used his real name or not. Plus, it would just be easier for John; he didn't want to blow his cover because he unwisely used some other name.

"H as in…?"

"Um…Hamish." _Damn!_ He hated his middle name.

"Right," Jeremy quipped, "birthdate?"

"August 8th, 1979."

"Okay, I assume you are an Omega of course," the young man chuckled a bit, "Formed or Unformed?"

"Um," another uncomfortable glance at the Holmes', though his status was no secret, he just plainly didn't like talking about it, "Unformed."

"Alright, I've got all I need for now, when can you come in?"

"Any time, really, I've…nothing on right now."

"How about tomorrow then? Say…two o'clock? Dr. Wilkes and Adler will be the ones to see you; they'll answer all your questions and guide you through the initial screening process. Is that alright?"

"Yes, that's fine. Two o'clock it is then, right. Thank you Jeremy."

"It was my pleasure Mr. Watson, enjoy the rest of your day." The young man ended the conversation cheerily, hanging up just as John was about to voice his goodbye as well.

It wasn't quite what he expected…it was a little more chipper and less gloom and doom and evil-killing-corporation for his taste. He sighed and ended the call with a flick of his thumb, leaving a light trail of grease across his expensive new mobile.

"Well, that's done then. Tomorrow at two o'clock, anything else?" He raised a questioning glance to the brothers, who managed to look both relieved and ridiculously uptight at the same time.

Mycroft stood and strode across the room, gathering his coat and umbrella, he turned and nodded politely. "We'll start the analysis immediately, good night John." With only a glance to his brother, he exited the flat and made his way out into the darkening London evening.

It was time for John to take his leave as well. He had to get back to the bungalow and inform everyone he was still alive. John worked his stiffening body out of the well-worn chair, looking about the room for his coat.

Sherlock, who had not moved or spoken during the entire time the Omega was on his mobile, now twitched and stood with John, confusion apparent on his face.

"Where are you going?" The sides of his mouth turned down in a questioning frown.

John blinked at him,_ unbelievable_. "I'm going to the bungalow Sherlock, where I'm staying now."

"But I thought we-"

John pulled on his jacket, not meeting the other man's gaze. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"John-"

He didn't look behind him as he limped out of the flat, slowing down as he hit the stairs.

"_Tomorrow_, Sherlock."


	12. Chapter 12

John decided to take a cab. He certainly wasn't going to walk all the way to the bungalow, some sixty plus minutes away. It stung a bit to use the few remaining notes he'd shoved in his jeans pocket that morning but, as his hip had already reminded him, walking that far was not on the docket tonight.

The cabbie gave him a cursory once over before barking out his demand for an address. John pursed his lips a moment, and offered a somewhat bogus street name near the bungalow. The cab smelled of stale tobacco and food (possibly Burger King), and as John got settled onto the suspiciously sticky faux leather seats, the Beta turned in the front and gave him a bit of side-eye. The Omega pretended not to notice, furiously trying to keep what was left of his dignity, not that he didn't already know what the man was thinking…what he was assuming anyway (homeless, dirty addict, what have you). It was just his luck he'd managed to catch the attention of a cabbie who knew the ins and outs of that particular stretch of London, and who exactly called that area home. After a brief minute, the man turned back around and manoeuvred the car forward, shaking his head in a slow rhythm that spoke volumes to the ex-army doctor.

They didn't speak again; and John found little comfort in the looking out the window, watching as they drove into the evening mist, headlights reflecting in the puddles of muck that gathered in the dips and creases of the street.

* * *

The bungalow looked just as dismal and derelict as John had left it. The Omega (and his small little band of constituents) had had a long and difficult discussion concerning squatting in the abandoned building and how to do it safely. While none of them were overly concerned with being hassled or put out, they wished to keep the bungalow a bit of a secret for as long as they could (the rest of the bridge crew would eventually find out, to be sure, but John wasn't entirely keen on having 20 or so squatters in a house meant to comfortably fit only five).

The long buttery shadows cast by the sodium streetlamps made the street look empty, haunted. It was a quiet, lonely kind of atmosphere that lent itself to long insightful moments and dispirited musings. He took a long look down both sides of the lane before opening the battered, creaky door and entering the dark living space they had successfully cleared only a week or so before.

Ha paused a moment in the threshold, straddling the invisible plane between _inside_ and _outside_…a feeling he had become all too familiar with after abandoning his miserable bedsit and taking to the streets. How often the small blond managed to float between feeling like he belonged in this world and feeling like he would never find a place to truly fit in, he couldn't say. It wasn't getting any better, but at least now he had some kind of purpose. With this case, he could prove that he still had it in him to get it _done_. He would assist to the best of his abilities, and then…what?

Well, John inhaled the musty scent of the front room as he stiffly took off his jacket, well…he would move on. He would continue as he was. There was no future between himself and Sherlock; ccertainly a man such as him would want nothing more to do with a beaten down latent Omega like John.

That they would solve this case, he was certain. He had spent enough time in the man's presence to know that even the most brilliant and clever of criminals didn't stand a chance to the scintillating intelligence that was Sherlock Holmes. The Omega both blessed and cursed the day he met the apex Alpha and wondered if this, probably ill-advised, foray into crime-solving would pan out. It would either be the making of him, or make him worse than ever (though he wasn't sure how that was possible). How did one get worse than what he was now?

He filed that thought away, deep down where it could nestle in his subconscious and probably find a way to plague him later in the most emotionally compromising way possible, his dreams. He did a lot of that lately, ignore his most melancholic thoughts, only to have them wriggle their way back to the forefront when he least expected. It was a terrible defence mechanism, as his ex-therapist would say (poor Ella, she did what she could), but right now it was all he had.

Useless thoughts and ruminations aside, John's war-torn body was making it quite clear it was time for rest. He could no longer ignore the stiffness in his hip and shoulder, and while kipping on his bedroll on a hardwood floor didn't hold a candle to a warm mattress, it was better than the gravel under the bridge. The blond fiddled with the locks on the door for a moment, dully clicking each one, engaging the brassy bars into the heavy wooden side-beam and wondering why he should even bother. After all, they were squatting, so it wasn't as if they really need concern themselves with protection against housebreaking. He supposed it was for his own peace of mind really, as it comforted him to know that he and all those he kept close to him where safe…even if it was just for now.

Faintly, he could hear voices up on the second level, high-pitched, feminine, and quite giggly. A small smile found its way onto his lips; Brandy and Julia were home.

It wasn't often the two women were able to share some true alone time together. Most days found them on the streets, digging through skips, busking, or even resorting to begging to get what they needed. With Brandy being pregnant, they had sympathy on their side, but John knew neither of them was very happy or proud of their circumstances.

They were already together when John met them, cold and ragged by the Thames, descending on unsuspecting tourists with wide-eyes and grumbling stomachs. He didn't know much about Julia, but he knew Brandy was running, running away from a previous life of privilege and a loveless marriage whose consummation was only a technicality away from rape. He knew she ran when she found out she was pregnant, desperate and unwilling to raise her child in that environment. Her husband had been an apex Alpha, and he used his genetic advantage to control Brandy through a haze of pheromones and an unfiltered, commanding presence that no Omega could resist.

John didn't blame her. After meeting Sherlock, he knew the power inherent in an apex. This was one of nature's cruel tricks…one of the many evolutionary pitfalls that kept the Omega's subservient and bred, popping out babies and leaving them doe-eyed and compliant in the face of reproductive slavery, essentially. Of course, John had never personally experienced true Omega social bias, but as a latent, his less than stellar treatment was more subtle. It was more insinuation and prejudice, comments under the breath and long, cold stares. It didn't help that apex Alpha's themselves were a world unto their own. They were almost always rich or royal, coming from old bloodlines with old money and expected all the worshipful treatment that came with that social status. For all that Omega's were the life-givers of the world; they didn't have much in the way of autonomy or political rights. It was bloody unfair, the army doctor thought bitterly.

He pushed all thoughts of Sherlock and his elite gender aside, moving up the stairs and past the closed door that housed the ridiculously in love and laughing pair. Sleep was on his mind now, and he rubbed his hands furiously against his face.

He rounded the corner, blinking his tired eyes a few times, following the glow from the streetlamps into another small room whose windows faced the street. He had chosen this space as his own not long after they moved in. Sarah's room was across the hall, and Raz crashed downstairs when the he found himself needing a safe place for the night.

A movement from one of the dark corners made John jump suddenly, fear flashing through his veins before subsiding, adrenaline playing havoc with his lungs and heart. It was a fleeting moment, as John's eyes adjusted to the dimness; he saw it was only Marcus. The large man was sat in the corner with knees bent against his chest, and had only just turned his head to look at the Omega as he came into the room.

"Marcus, _Jesus_…" John wrapped his hand around the back of his neck, moving further into the room and towards his bedroll, "you scared the piss out of me."

"I'm sorry," the Alpha murmured, low and atonal, he didn't offer any reason for being in John's room. But honestly, he didn't have to. Their relationship was already strained almost to the breaking point; John certainly wasn't going to kick him out.

The doctor lowered himself to the ground slowly, kicking off his shoes, but leaving his socks to warm his toes in the night. They weren't outside, but the house wasn't heated either.

"Do you need anything?" John thought maybe Marcus needed something more than just the pleasure of his company, such as it was.

The man only shook his slowly, side to side, unwilling or unable to make eye contact.

John managed a slow exhale, "Right."

He burrowed into his bedroll, covering his form with a threadbare blanket, shivering hard once to shake out the moments of the day. A few deep breaths and the Omega was able to relax, eventually, his mind quieting and pulling him down into a dreamless sleep that promised an energized and eventful morning.

Maybe.

* * *

John woke to the muffled sound of a police siren blaring outside their tiny little house. He blinked, opening his eyes and just seeing the last vestiges of flashing lights flit away from the window, painting the walls in splashes of blue and red. He was disoriented for a moment, as he tended to be when he woke unexpectedly in the middle of the night.

A snuffling sound caught his attention, and he looked over to his right side, seeing Marcus crouched by his bedside. The man was sitting silently but looked alert; it was possible he hadn't slept at all during the night. The Omega was touched, as always, that the larger man thought him so important as to watch over him all night. Not for the first time, John wondered how he had ever missed the signs that Marcus loved him. They were all there, of course, but he supposed he had either ignored or flat out dismissed the man's obvious regard for him.

"Marcus?" John's voice sounded small and thin, "are you alright?"

The Alpha turned his head, blinking slowly; he nodded once in the affirmative.

The blond reached his hand out and settled it gently against the man's knee. "Are you-"

Marcus jerked back as if stung. "_No!_" He cried, an insistent note of panic and fear underlining that one simple word. "_No, John! Don't touch!_"

The larger man scrambled backwards, chest heaving in blatant distress. He looked as if he was afraid for his own life, eyes flitting to the door of the room and the window. John couldn't help the expression of surprised disbelief and confusion that settled onto his face, deepening the harried lines around his eyes and mouth. He raised both hands in front of him, eyes wide and innocent.

"Marcus, please. I – I didn't mean anything by it. I just…" John gulped a breath of air, "Please don't be angry with me."

Marcus practically trembled where he was, splayed out on the floor and looking for all the world like a child. He gazed up at John adoringly, but behind his eyes was a fear John was not familiar with. This was a new behavior the Omega had never seen before, and it set off alarm bells he could not ignore.

"Not my John, not mine," the man gasped, placing his arms across his chest and curling, cross-legged, into himself.

"What's not yours, Marcus?"

"John is not mine," the terrified man repeated, breaking eye contact with the Omega to stare down at the soiled floor.

It dawned on him then, after a moment of horrifying realization, that he knew exactly where this came from.

"Who said that to you Marcus? _Who?_" John could feel his hands clenched at his side, his chest gone tight. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from Marcus himself.

The other man twisted his head once; a firm shake side to side. He pinched his lips shut, cutting off the blood flow to his lips and making them blanch into one long, thin, white line.

"_Marcus…_" the good doctor prompted once more, he had his suspicions, but he didn't want to be mistaken. Not about something like this.

The other man visibly flinched, one hesitant tear falling from the tip of his nose to darken his dirty jeans in a perfectly rounded circle above his thigh. He breathed in, shakily and only said one word. If John hadn't been listening quite so closely, he might have missed it. Truly, I was naught but a whisper.

"Alpha," he breathed, burying his face in his hands; and while he wasn't crying openly, John could hear the thick, hitching breaths of one who could no longer hold back tears.

The Omega's face dissolved into an expression of stony acceptance. He couldn't say he was surprised, but he did feel a little objectified…which was actually nothing new when one was dealing with Alphas and the like. He forced himself to calm, breathing in to a count of five, and then exhaling to a count of the same. This little breathing exercise was probably the only useful thing Ella had ever taught him. But really…

…how _dare_ he? _How dare he?_

John and Sherlock needed to have a little talk.

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and clear. It did nothing for John's mood. A black cloud had descended upon the doctor and would not dissipate.

He hadn't bothered to undress the night before, choosing to sleep in his clothes, as he did more often than not. He reminded himself that today was the day he went in for the study, and while he didn't exactly feel nervous per se, there was a small fluttering of excitement that settled into the pit of his stomach overnight. Of course, this also had a bit to do with the very serious talk he was going to have with Sherlock as well.

The anger from a few hours ago still bubbled under the surface of his skin. It was a thick, nasty thing that he couldn't completely let go of. He wanted to enter this situation rationally, but really all he wanted to do was throttle the bastard. Most of the morning had been spent in macabre daydreams of wrapping his hands around Sherlock's pale, creamy neck.

He pushed that thought away; thinking about a certain apex Alpha's pale, creamy neck had a tendency to evolve into fantasies of a dubious, sexual nature more often than they did a homicidal one. John did not appreciate his hind-brain for that _at all_. Pheromones and hormones aside, John needed his righteous anger to see him through this confrontation, otherwise he'd find himself backing down and letting the Alpha get away with whatever he wanted. While that was certainly the path of least resistance, and tempting, it did nothing to avenge the emotional trauma the apex had knowingly heaped upon his friend.

John decided to walk to Baker Street. He had a surplus of energy and anger that needed to be released; he figured physical exercise was the best way to do this.

The December air was crisp and clean, the only hint of the oncoming winter lay in the white, cloudy puffs of air that trailed from his mouth as he walked. He was glad for the exercise for once, his hip not hurting him near as much as it had been the past few days. He couldn't shake the all-encompassing sense of danger and peril that permeated his thoughts though, what with the study and impending confrontation with Sherlock, one could even say he looked forward to it.

John turned onto Baker Street exactly one hour after he started walking; the lacquered door came into view with its bright brass knocker glinting in a come-hither way John could not ignore. An undeniable wave of adrenaline coursed through his diminutive form, causing goose bumps and the hair on his body to stand at attention.

He attacked the door with gusto, after trying the bell several times, banging his left fist upon the lacquered surface, uncaring as to who answered the door. This all seemed like a fine plan, until the kind and worn face of Mrs. Hudson peeked through the crack of the door. John stopped his pounding immediately.

"John! Dear…_oh my_…"

"Mrs. Hudson! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" he rolled his eyes inwardly, cursing his misplaced exuberance, "…is Sherlock at home? I tried ringing the bell…"

She smiled, looking upon John with doting eyes, "No dear…although if you'll be taking the room upstairs after all, I can certainly ring him up, if you wish."

"No…I-I just need…I'm meeting him here later. Do you mind if I go up?"

"Not at all, I think he just went out for the morning. I was about to see to his Lino, but…"

"No," the Omega clutched the small parcel at his side, a clean change of clothes, and "I'll just wait for him, if you don't mind."

Mrs. Hudson nodded in that matronly way of hers. He wasn't sure, but the older Omega seemed to be gunning for some kind of relationship between himself and Sherlock. He could save her the energy and tell her right out that that was impossible, but he just couldn't keep himself from uttering the actual words.

She opened the door wide, letting him through with a wide smile on her lips.

"Are you sure you don't want me to ring him?" she fiddled with one gauzy sleeve of her cerise dress.

"No, thank you. I'll just make myself a cuppa and wait. Thank Mrs. H."

She twittered and retired to her own flat, closing the door softly. John made his way up the (seventeen?) steps to 221B and called out for Sherlock. There was no answer.

He had never been in Sherlock's flat without the man also in attendance. It was…strange, to say the least. The place felt sterile, and a little hollow without the presence of the Alpha who essentially gave the flat its life. John shook his head fiercely, reminding himself that this was not the time to wax poetic, he was here on business, in more ways than one.

Oh well, he could at least clean himself up while he was waiting.

This was one thing he worried about when it came to the study. Sure, they were targeting the homeless, but did he _have_ to show up filthy?

He made his way to the bathroom, unclothing himself with a practiced hand and making his way into the shower. It was heaven. The hot spray of water momentarily cured all his ills, the rising steam vaporizing any grievances. It was difficult to leave. He remembered a time when he took all of this for granted. God, he had been so stupid. He would never be so ignorant again.

He stepped out of the shower carefully, conscious of the water and steam. The Omega felt glorious and clean in a way he rarely got to experience nowadays.

The towel brushed against his head and he dried his hair as much as possible, which was easy, considering it was only an inch or so longer than the last time he was here. John pulled back his lips and inspected his teeth, they were a little fuzzier than he liked. John didn't have a toothbrush on hand, so he smoothed his finger over his teeth and sucked on the surface a bit. Oh well, he would get dressed and figure everything else later.

He tied the fluffy (probably 100% pure Egyptian cotton) towel loosely around his narrow hips and opened the door. He grabbed his small bag and made his way into the hallway.

It was probably because of the steam that he didn't notice the dark figure by the doorway. He was so engrossed in the post-shower glow that he failed to scent the rather imperious Alpha waiting with baited breath just at the threshold of the bath.

John was gripped quite firmly around the waist and swung round against the adjacent wall. The back of his head bounced off the plaster wall, flashing white stars in front of his eyes and forcing him to grab the wrists of the hands that held him. He wanted to scream and fight against the steeled grip, but the scent of Sherlock filled his nostrils, waking his libido and making the Omega want to gorge himself on the insufferable man.

He felt useless, helpless, and deliciously weak in the face of the apex Alpha.

Sherlock's large hands slid enticingly up John's chest, neck, and placed themselves on each side of his jaw. The Alpha's hot breath flooded the Omega's senses.

"_John_…" Sherlock growled, the sound coming in low and laborious, rippling through his thorax to settle deep within his bones.

He was in so much trouble.


	13. Chapter 13

It was the measure of a thousand heartbeats, or one long in-drawn breath - maybe two - that set John's blood aflame and pricked the surface of his like the hot, dry winds of the Afghan desert. He leant against the wall, mind reeling, and felt the warmth of Sherlock's hands collect around the tender areas of his neck. Time slowed, stretching the sensations on an infinite scale.

It would be an easy thing, he thought, to slant his head just so...bend it to the side in a silent act of willing but unspoken submission.

Yet, this is not what he did. This was not what John Watson was.

Unformed Omega's didn't go into heat, they didn't have children, they didn't bond, and they certainly didn't entertain romantic but erroneous notions of gender passivity, even to an apex Alpha such as the one before him.

"_John…_" Sherlock's voice was smooth and deep, a viscous liquid that roiled around his primitive brain in currents that whispered of lust, longing, and millennia of sexual acquiescence. John's own bodily response could not be diminished, regardless of how confused and wonderfully frightened he felt in this moment; and underneath that one simple word, a rumbling murmur (almost like a purr), vibrated from the Alpha's chest.

Sherlock filled his vision, encompassing the smaller Omega in a hazy cloud of dampened, barely-held-in-check aggression and physical need he could feel as surely he felt the moment lengthening with every breath. Every inhalation of air (simple negative air pressure gas exchange through his alveoli), served to make him feel dizzier, the self-control he so prided himself on rapidly slipping away.

Warm, elegant fingers twitched as Sherlock ducked his head towards the blond, moving his left hand to gently grip his tensed bicep and bring his nose in contact with the soft, finely haired skin that made berth between the shoulder and neck. There he kept it, moving only to inhale at long, humid intervals.

Through the whirlwind of sensation and thoughts (no, _stop_, don't stop, _keep going_, what are you doing? _leave me alone_, kiss me, _I love you_), John managed to realize that the Alpha's grip was soft and tractable. Even after his first initial fright, after thumping his head hard on the plaster wall behind him, he realized Sherlock was not hurting him...didn't seem to want to hurt him.

The apex Alpha was, in fact, scenting John in the most intimate and sensual way the Omega had ever experienced.

John had only been scented a few times in his life (not counting his rather unfortunate run in with an overprotective and hormonally crazed Marcus), and it was usually a highly volatile, lust or rage-filled affair that found John barely able to speak or move in his own defence. Scenting wasn't always about sex, sometimes it was about obedience, domination, or possession. The only Alphas that had ever been close to John had muscled their way into his personal space, unknowing or uncaring of how genuinely terrifying it was to be held down and drooled on like a slab of meat amongst a pack of starving wolves. For this reason, John had never been with an Alpha, only Betas, and Betas did not scent.

His previous experiences were never like this - gentle, unhurried, reverential. Sherlock languished next to the doctor, thumbs spinning slow, unconscious circles into the Omega's skin, hips pressed against his lower belly. If John didn't know any better, he'd mistake this behaviour for something normally found in a mated pair.

But, of course, John did know better. That was the problem.

He stretched his neck, lifting his chin in an unconscious manner, feeling all of the heat and pounding heartbeats leave his chest and settle far, far lower. If this went on much longer, he really would be in trouble. He couldn't control his bodily reaction, not when he was flush chest to chest with the man he dreamt about, thought about, wanted to be with and see every day for the rest of his life.

Sherlock pivoted, moving the weight of his body to his right foot, insinuating a knee between John's own. His nose began to move, travelling upward, catching softly on the short, auburn hairs of the Omega's beard (he hadn't shaved it off yet, and thought only a perfunctory shower for his upcoming meeting would do for now). A shiver made its way down John's arm and legs, ending centrally, a bright, tingling ball of sensation focussed around his groin. This, he could no longer ignore.

"_Sherlock_," his voice was forced, heavy with untold emotion and barely disguised need, "_what are you doing?_"

The Alpha didn't seem to hear him, or he chose to ignore the Omega. John exhaled, gripping the towel around his hips so tightly he was sure the individual threads would be forever embedded as scars in his skin. Sherlock's nose moved steadily across the blond's hairline, issuing little puffs of air that bounced against the longish strands of his fringe. The man was either enraptured, or become so deeply feral that any kind of overt movement or sound could be regarded as a threat or challenge. John was better off holding still and letting the detective finish his primitive, but unable to be ignored, scenting of an Omega.

He closed his eyes, breath stuttering from his mouth in short gasps of disbelief and revelation. He no longer felt afraid; he couldn't feel anything else but the searing touch of the man in front of him. The man whose hands now fluttered slowly away from his neck and bicep, down the vertical plane of his torso, to settle in a propriety grip at his flank. They were only an inch or so above the fleecy edge of the towel, and for one brief moment, John thought he might actually rip the thin barrier away from his hips. He flushed at the thought, ruddy stains of vascularization making his face burn and his nipples stiffen in unconscious response. In the back of his mind (and to his eternal mortification), he felt his cock stir, the heretofore only teasing, tingling sensations coalescing into turgid, hot, hard flesh.

Sherlock mouthed his way slowly down the left side of John's face, nudging insistently with his nose and willing the Omega to tilt his head to the side and bare the delicate, downy, underside of his jaw. Whatever scent John emitted, weak though it was, it would be easiest to inhale it there…although most Alpha's tended to prefer the thicker, muskier Omega pheromones that collected around the genitalia.

John promised himself it would not get that far. He would put an end to it long before that became an issue but... right now, he focused on controlling his breathing and trying not to hyperventilate, hold his breath, or otherwise do anything else to alarm or startle the sex-addled man caging him against the wall.

Sherlock nuzzled gently against his neck, continuing his deep, rhythmic inhalations and purr-like humming. For the first time, John wondered how long this was going to last. He wondered if the Alpha would eventually sate himself, happy and glutted on latent Omega essence, or…

This answer became alarmingly clear in the next moment, as John felt the unmistakable sting of teeth just below his jawline. He straightened instantly, eyes popping wide. It was just then that John first felt the hard press of the Alpha's interest.

"_Sherlock!_" John cried out, unable to keep silent any longer. This was quickly becoming more than a poorly controlled, hormonally fuelled scenting. This was becoming something else entirely. Flashes of Edward, Marcus, and every other Alpha who'd dared force themselves upon the Omega rushed to the forefront of his mind. His arousal waned, and the blood that was so diligently pooling below his belly was redirected into other channels, towards the heart and lungs in a fight or flight response he could not control. He needed to stop this now before he humiliated himself, or Sherlock did something he would certainly come to regret.

"I think that's about _enough_ of that, don't you, little brother?" A sharp _thud _accompanied the statement, the sound of the tip of an umbrella thrust down upon the floor to gain attention and interrupt clandestine activities.

Mycroft Holmes' unctuous, public school tone resonated from the entrance to the kitchen. Sherlock stiffened, his fervent nestling ceasing abruptly, the low growling from his chest stuttering in its cadence.

He didn't move though. Both arms were still latched onto the Omega, gripping his rapidly cooling form by the sides.

"_Go away, Mycroft!_" Sherlock's voice was raw, affected, making it clear that he was very nearly close to losing control. He released his feverish grips and planted one hand on each side of John's head, leaning in ever so slightly but not making eye contact. His unfocussed gaze rested directly above John's left shoulder, not far from his scar, as if something suddenly appeared on the wall that was monumentally interesting.

"_Sherlock_…" Mycroft warned. Clearly, he wouldn't take much more of this behaviour.

John was stuck in a strange feedback loop of want versus self-preservation. He was slightly terrified of the Alpha who'd pressured him against the wall and violated his space, but at the same time he wanted very much to continue to be the only thing caught in Sherlock's depthless gaze. It was a terrible thing, this indecision that warred within him….lust against logic.

In the end, it was logic that won, but only just.

"Sherlock?" He managed, although his voice was breathy, strained.

Energy pulsed between them, and for a long moment, John wasn't sure Sherlock would come back to himself. He did though, balling his hands into fists and stepping away so abruptly that he must have taken the air with him, for John couldn't breathe through the vacuum that suddenly descended upon the hallway.

The Omega cleared his throat once, uncomfortably ashamed and suddenly very cold. Not for the first time he wondered why this kept happening to him. Did he appear so weak and helpless? What was it about him that called to these _animals?_

He fled, purposely fixating on putting one foot in front of the other, just to make his way up the stairs and slam the heavy wooden door behind him.

The hand that clutched at the knotted towel ached, and it was a tense moment before he realized his muscles were so contracted that he could no longer feel his fingers. This unconscious, forced tetany had a stranglehold on almost his whole body, and he finally exhaled with explosive force. It was difficult to drag in another lungful of air without an accompanying sob, but he managed it after all.

Downstairs, the two Alphas fell together in a loud, heated confrontation. The Omega clamped both hands over his ears until he couldn't hear what they were saying - and that was quite alright with him, because he was _certain_ he didn't want to.

It took him a very long time to gather up enough willpower to move again. It may have only been minutes; or maybe as long as an hour, but it felt like _days_. John was horribly confused, exhausted, and downright furious at his own inaction.

What happened to the man that had joined the RAMC? The one who was stubborn, headstrong, and possessing an unshakable sense of honour that other people envied? What happened to the toughened Omega that thought nothing of throwing fists and bloodying noses?

As John dressed (pants, vest, shirt, faded jeans, all passably clean), he realised that since he'd returned to London, he had been slowly, but surely, losing himself. His history, his _life_, was dissolving into the muddled and cloudy waters of the Thames, merging with the swirling tides that eventually made their way to the ocean, and beyond.

How had this happened? Could he _let_ this continue to happen?

It would be so easy…it would be _so_ easy to just close his eyes and let go. Then it would all be gone: the constant pain, the weariness, the never-ending burden of a dozen lives on his shoulders.

It was something to think about, surely. After all, it wasn't long ago that he was seriously contemplating oblivion delivered from the muzzle of a gun.

But first, he had to do this one last thing. Just this one more thing, and then maybe...

* * *

"I'm not wearing a bloody _wire_, Mycroft." John gripped one of the buttons of his blue and white checked shirt, an unhappy frown broadcasting his reluctance.

"John…" the taller man answered in a long-suffering sigh, "the entire purpose of this operation is to infiltrate the study and identify the murderers. You are our eyes in the building, but someone else needs to be the ears."

"I get that, I really do, but this is my first appointment, yeah? They'll be wanting blood tests, urine, and probably an entire sodding physical. How exactly am I supposed to hide a wire while I'm standing there almost completely starkers?" The Omega raised an eyebrow, challenging the other man to disagree.

Mycroft's face settled into an impassive expression teetering on complete boredom, this, among all things, indicated that John was correct. The wire was no longer an option, not this time anyway.

"You'll have to think of something else," John shrugged, waving a hand towards the posh Alpha across from him. Mycroft was sat in Sherlock's well-worn leather and metal chair, looking more uncomfortable by the moment. He was ill-suited to cheap furniture, it seemed. John had visions of rich mahogany desks and sumptuously upholstered divans; this seemed more Mycroft's style.

Neither of them knew where Sherlock had disappeared to. If one wanted to describe the current atmosphere in 221B, there probably wouldn't be a better phrase than 'tense beyond all heretofore imaginings.' Sherlock had absconded to parts unknown almost immediately after the row with his brother, and had not contacted them since. It wasn't completely out of character, so neither man was especially worried as of yet. Still, he hadn't quite been in his right mind when he flew down the stairs, hurled the front door open and took off down the street, uncomprehending of the chaos he was leaving behind.

When John had finally gathered up enough courage to leave the upstairs room, he found only Mycroft, silent and rigid, sitting in Sherlock's chair and staring quite avidly into the empty fireplace. It became clear, quite quickly, that he refused to discuss the incident, and would reject any attempts at bringing it up in the near future as well. The Omega had no choice but to swallow his reservations and move forward with the plan.

"My mobile," John blurted out suddenly, putting his hand inside his trousers and pulling out the iPhone Sherlock had gifted him, "you can already record my conversations, can't you record everything else too?" He tried not to sound resentful, truly, but it might have snuck out just a little. The statement did have an undercurrent of bitterness Mycroft was almost certain to pick up on.

If the prim Alpha noticed, he didn't mention it. He only gathered his hands around the curve of his umbrella, leaning forward to rest his weight on the accoutrement.

"What an _ingenious_ idea, John."

* * *

The Highlands Centre was a monstrosity constructed of metal and glass. Having been built only a few years ago, it suffered from the same lack of character that afflicted many modern buildings in London nowadays (excepting the Gherkin, that certainly had _plenty_ of character). It wasn't for want of trying, however.

As John made his way through the enormous glass doors, he could see that what the architects lacked in originality, the interior designers tried to make up with nostalgia. The entire lobby and information area was bedecked in stripes, hard angles, and the geometric, repeating designs reminiscent of the Art Deco style of the 1930's and 40's. That, along with the sumptuous fountains and large tinkling chandeliers, almost made up for the sterile, unremarkable exterior.

"Right," he muttered under his breath, glancing around the spacious marble foyer, eventually locating the brushed steel lifts, "suite 895 it is."

No one gave the limping Omega a second glance as he searched the list of suites next to the busy lift bank. It was strange; he couldn't locate the actual suite number on the directory. All the business and offices seemed to be allocated according to floor number, and there were many on the eighth floor, just no suite marked 895. He frowned, sniffing once and squaring his shoulders. Well, that wasn't suspicious at all, was it?

He decided to explore the eighth floor anyway, cane tapping a sad little tattoo on the marble as he entered the lift. No one else seemed to notice. John waited as the elevator slowly filled with various couriers, business persons, and building personnel he supposed frequented the high-rise. There were 20 or so floors, and the row of shiny buttons inside the lift lit up like glassy fairy lights.

When he exited, he was surprised at how non-descript the floors themselves turned out to be (if they were all the same). Unlike the richly decorated lobby, it appeared the subsequent upper floors were quite a bit toned down. There was large desk immediately in front of him as he hobbled off the lift, empty, and a carpeted floor accented with muted, simple pieces of art on the wall. He would have asked about the suite, if there'd been someone at the information desk but…it seemed a bit of lone exploration was the name of the game today.

On either side of the angular wooden desk, were two long hallways. At the beginning of each hallway was a plaque affixed to the wall with a range of suite numbers; John made his way down the hallway that offered the higher numbers of the two. The good doctor counted as he made his way past door after door, some of them suites or bathrooms, maintenance areas, or storage. When he reached the end he sighed, no Suite 895. It wasn't like he was surprised; he was just rather loathe to return back to Baker Street having not even found the location of the study. A wave of disappointment coursed through his body.

"Bollocks!" He muttered darkly, turning to head back down the hallway and towards the lift.

"Excuse me?" A young, female voice, floated around from behind him, causing the Omega to start a bit violently.

"_Bloody hell!_"

"Wow, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry sir. I didn't mean to scare you! I wasn't trying to sneak up on you, I promise." She smiled, clasping her hands in front of her dark skirt and flipping her chestnut-coloured waves of hair to the side with one casual flick of her head. She smelled vaguely soapy, with a hint of underlying musk that must have been her own scent. She was an unformed Alpha, John realized, just as he noticed the door to the women's loo right behind her, swinging slowly on its hinges.

"No…I…erm, it's alright. Really – I was just trying to find suite 895, but I'm not really having much luck. Is it here? Or have I got the wrong place completely?"

"Hmm…895?" Her brow wrinkled attractively, warm brown eyes becoming quite focussed in concentration. She tapped a well-manicured finger to her chin, until she brightened and awarded John with a brilliant smile, "Oh, I remember! We just recently had a medical group switch suites, water damage and flooding you know, some malfunction of the sprinkler system apparently. In any case, we didn't have any more suites available so we had to re-locate them to one of our larger conference areas. It's just down the way over here," she shrugged once, a slight look of irritation coming over her perfectly made up face, "I guess they decided to name it Suite 895; would have been nice if they'd decided to tell _us_."

She began to walk briskly, letting John follow behind her and running the risk of becoming completely mesmerized by the hypnotic sway of her ample hips.

"So sorry! I'm fairly new here, sometimes I forget things. But, here we are. My name's Jessica and I'll be outside at the desk of you need anything else." She gave the Omega one more lovely smile, before turning briskly and making her way back to the enormous desk by the lifts.

"Thank you." He offered before she disappeared around the corner, making it unclear as to whether she actually heard him or not.

He was now standing behind two imposing wooden doors, both of which contained a small window offering a glimpse of the other side. The plaque next to the entrance labelled it the King James Conference Room, and though he missed it before, a small piece of paper jammed in the slot underneath the bold lettering quite clearly stated '895' in neat block handwriting.

Relocated, huh?

The Omega pushed his way in, immediately aware of the horrid waiting room music that floated through the area. There was another workspace at the far end of conference-room-turned-office, occupied by an energetic young man who flitted about between his computer, phone, and filing cabinet.

He limped his way over, making note of the layout. Two more doors opened outwards on either side of the makeshift desk, possibly leading to further hallways and then god knows where. John wasn't entirely sure of the layout of this building, so, he didn't really know how large this new suite actually was.

On the desk was a small sign offering a single name 'Jeremy.' Ah, this must be the bloke he'd talked to on the phone.

Jeremy stopped his no doubt caffeine fuelled work pace as he spotted John, a friendly smile lighting up his spotted face.

"Are you my two o'clock? Um…" He looked down for a moment, consulting a flattened desk calendar, before glancing back towards the doctor, "John Hamish Watson?"

He sighed, he did so hate it when someone said his middle name out loud, "Yes, just John would be fine."

"Excellent!" The much younger man perked up, ruffling through a file cabinet and pulling out form after form, "I've got some paperwork for you to fill out here. After that I'll make a copy of your ID, then your session with Dr. Adler and Dr. Wilkes. Here's a clipboard and pen, have a seat and take as long as you need."

John took the proffered items, quickly locating an uncomfortable looking plastic chair behind him. It didn't take long to fill out the forms, as a doctor, he wasn't unused to paperwork. It all seemed to be standard fare, familial history, medical history, and the like. Jeremy gave him a winning smile when he was done.

It took several minutes for all his pertinent information to be entered into the state-of-the-art looking computer system. John eyeballed the slim monitor and sleek design, thinking about his iPhone. Perhaps, maybe one day when he got his life together (if he got that far), he'd get himself a laptop; that would be nice.

A few people entered and exited through the other doors, talking to Jeremy in low tones, barely sparing a glance to the small Omega awaiting his appointment. Finally, the young Beta called his name and motioned for him to go through the door on his left, stating that Dr. Wilkes would be waiting for him when he did.

John complied, making his way slowly through the door and out into the hallway beyond. Once past the reception, the entire tone of the area changed. The hallway was rather long, and blindingly white, almost disconcertingly so. There were quite a few doors lined up on both his left and right, also white. John was instantly unsure of where to go.

As if reading his mind, Jeremy popped his head in through the entranceway behind him, "First door on the left, sorry!"

The Omega gave him a weak smile and followed his instructions. This led him to a small examination room, complete with all the fixings he was intimately familiar with. All the tools needed for a complete health assessment were here: charts of various body systems littered the area, a padded examination bed was placed near the centre of the room, and a sterile metal table rested against the far wall. It seemed a physical was first on his list of things to do.

The door squeaked open behind him, heralding the appearance of another Beta male, probably in his late 30's. He had mousy brown hair, weathered skin, and a smarmy sort of smile that set John's teeth on edge.

"Hello!" The man's geniality seemed false and forced, "John Watson I presume? Good afternoon." He reached to shake the Omega's hand.

"Yes, hello." John gave his hand one strong pump.

"Excellent. I'm Dr. Sebastian Wilkes, I'll be assessing your health, administering your physical and drawing your blood work, alright?" He moved over to a small bin and pulled out a few large, clear plastic bags. He placed them on the bed, then pulled out an unattractive hospital gown from a large overhead cupboard. This he placed on the bed as well.

"But first, I'm going to need you to take your clothes off. Let me know when you're finished, I'll be right outside." He took his leave, letting the door squeak shut behind him.

Well, they certainly liked to dive right in, didn't they?


	14. Chapter 14

John sat on the fully adjustable (but still somehow managing to be completely uncomfortable), paper-covered, faux leather examination bed for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time. The smell of the exam room, the glint of metal and class canisters containing plasters and cotton tipped applicators only served to remind him of his tumultuous adolescence. Just how many gender specialists had he seen before his parents deemed him unworthy of Formation? How many times had he sat in this same type of room, wondering if that day was the day they would change their mind? How long did it take them to decide their money was better spent on alcohol and cigarettes than their own son?

He supposed it didn't really matter now, and not for the first time, he wondered if this experimental medication (whatever it was) really had the ability to convert him to full Omega. The idea was ephemeral and tempting, much like a lovely dream one tries to catch and hold whilst unwillingly rising to consciousness. When he thought back on all his failed relationships, all his fumbling one night stands, he couldn't help but think that maybe this would have all been different if his parents had just said 'yes.' Hell, he could even be bonded with children by now, and what would _that_ be like?

John took a long moment to think on that. He wasn't entirely sure if that scenario was right for him. After all, he had gone to war, been burnt and shot – would a life of domesticity and child-rearing truly make him happy?

He was chilled suddenly; his threadbare hospital gown was as helpful as tissue paper when it came to retaining body warmth. A low level of arousal pricked his skin…a live undercurrent of preparedness that rolled low in his gut since he'd stepped in the building earlier today.

He felt not unlike James Bond as he reached over and turned on the transmitter hidden inside his iPhone. This was all very spy movie and hush-hush, and for a moment, John fancied himself as reasonable a facsimile of Daniel Craig as one underweight blond Omega could possibly be.

_Hmmm_…Daniel Craig? Maybe more like Mr. Bean.

He sighed loudly, just as the door to the room squeaked open once again. Dr Wilkes strode inside, greasy smile plastered all over his homely face. John steeled himself internally, calling on his experience in the battlefield to keep a stiff upper lip.

Wilkes hooked one polished shoe into a cracked vinyl stool and scooted it over, sitting down as it rested to a stop in front of the Omega. He pulled a penlight from his crisp Lab coat and clicked it off and on in quick succession.

"So, John, tell me about yourself. I have a bit of your history here but…you know how impersonal paperwork can be."

John didn't actually _want_ to share any more of his personal information with the Beta than he had to. It was bad enough he had to fill out those forms, god knows who would have their grimy paws on his medical history now.

"Erm, right…I'm 35, latent Omega…uh, right you know that of course," John shifted, the paper crinkling loudly under his bottom. He grimaced before inhaling and moving on, "I qualified as a doctor before joining the Army. I was shot in the left shoulder, and barely survived a rather nasty bout of enteric fever while laid up in hospital. I suffered third degree burns on my right hip, as well as embedded shrapnel when my transport blew up, just after I was shot. No complications there though. Um, I'm a Leo, I like a good bath and cup of tea, alcoholism runs in my family, my favourite colour is blue and when I was little I had a pet hedgehog named Brent Spiny."

"A hedgehog named Brent Spiny?" The other man raised his eyebrows, nonplussed.

"Yeah," the blond rubbed at the back of his neck, willing himself to just relax, "I was a big fan of Star Trek: The Next Generation as a kid."

Wilkes burst out a laugh, just one hearty guffaw, and for a minute the smile on his face was genuine.

"Well…I did ask you to tell me about yourself." He replied, chuckling and clicking his penlight repeatedly.

"Ah, that you did," John responded with his own half-smile, just a corner of his mouth quirked up a bit. He'd been told this particular facial expression was boyish and charming and he wasn't above using all the weapons in his arsenal for this situation. This might be his only chance at gaining a position in the study, and if he wasn't admitted, he will have failed everyone. Worst of all, he'd have failed Sherlock – and he simply could not let that happen.

Dr Wilkes cleared his throat and situated himself on his stool, grasping his pen and lifting it to John's navy blue eyes.

"I'll just get started then, shall I?"

This was all too familiar to the Omega, as he had done this a thousand times to others under his care. However, it had been a while since _he'd_ been properly seen by a healthcare provider, and he tried very hard to comply and not feel like a performing monkey. He breathed when asked, lifted his shoulders (the left not being able to go up near as far as the right), lifted his arms…he laid on his back while Wilkes auscultated, palpated, and percussed. The doctor took his vital signs: temperature, blood pressure, respirations, and pulse.

All of this was standard fare, of course, and it wasn't until the reproductive assessment that John began to feel a bit uncomfortable. At first, he thought he was imagining things…that perhaps he was just unhappy with the situation and superimposing those feelings onto Dr. Wilkes. After all, this man was a Beta (or smelled like one anyway), and they were not known to be sexually aggressive.

It wasn't anything Wilkes did in particular that suddenly made his face flush hot and heart thud a warning in his chest. The Beta's touch was coldly clinical as he clasped John's penis in his gloved and spray-tanned grip, and he remained quietly detached as he pulled the foreskin back to examine the glans.

But then…John noticed the fine pearls of perspiration on his upper lip; and the faint tremble of his fingers as he slid the pad of his thumb across the tip of his prick, swiping across the spongy tissue with a definite pressure that could in no way be deemed appropriate.

John stared mutely at the cracked foam tiles in the ceiling, his tightly closed lips forming a tortured line across his face.

Dr. Wilkes was not a large man, but you'd never know it by the way his acrid coffee-laced breath subtlety quickened, as if he was recovering from some arduous physical activity. His warm hand gripped John's shaft, which had thickened noticeably, a by-product of manual stimulation and (unfortunately) a perfectly normal reaction to a genital exam. John desperately willed the reaction to go down, feeling more than a little betrayed by his own body (a not altogether unfamiliar feeling).

The blond exhaled silently through painfully clenched teeth, trying to remember his breathing exercises.

Wilkes moved his hand down slowly - a soft, tortuous slide of his fingertips - as he squeezed and prodded at the semi-turgid flesh. He fondled the loosened skin around the base of the Omega's shaft that would have housed testicles, if he had any. The scrotal sack was merely vestigial now, as his ovaries were, of course, housed in his lower abdomen.

"Ah…" The doctor began, wiping his left wrist over the top of his obscenely damp upper lip. He twisted the thin skin gently back and forth between his thumb and index finger. John squeezed his eyes closed and held back a grunt…just because he didn't have testicles didn't mean the area wasn't sensitive. "Have you heard of the new testicular implants they're selling to Omega's these days?"

The fact that the man was trying to make any kind of attempt at conversation was absurd. Couldn't he see how uncomfortable John was? What the _hell_ did he think he was doing?

John choked a bit, swallowing his own sticky, thick saliva before answering the man, "Um, no. No I haven't." His voice sounded weak and uneasy to his own ears - surely the man would notice as well?

"Yeah, got the idea from dogs, they did. You know, after they'd been neutered there wasn't much left, just an empty sack," He continued to caress the loose skin, absently rubbing John's perineum with the meaty thumb of his left hand while he did, "Not really sure if it was just for show but…they found it certainly gave the dog something to _lick_ afterwards."

The emphasis on the word 'lick' left John with a more than vivid understanding of Wilkes' thought process. The itchy, hot flush in his abdomen abruptly ceased, leaving his skin cold and pale.

The smile on the Beta's face bordered on lecherous, his eyes taking on a dull gleam John tried not to recognize…though he'd seen it many times before.

"Not interested," he managed to force his vocal cords into action, pushing air past the spasms in his throat. The room seemed too small now, the walls too constricting. What should he do? What _could_ he do?

"Yes well," Wilkes continued, with continued disregard for John's obvious discomfort, "I'm not much for the idea myself. Of course anyone can do what they want but, I like my Omega's natural, just as they were born."

John wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but Dr. Wilkes' long, lingering stare didn't leave much to the imagination.

The blond breathed a sigh of relief as the Beta removed his hands (finally), the waft of cool air as the man moved away was welcome. Then, he heard a packet being opened, and realized this was not over.

Dr. Wilkes grasped the rough bottom of each heel and positioned his feet further to the side to sit in the stirrups that popped up from the end of the table. John complied, but only just; he had to keep reminding himself that innocent Omegas were being murdered. He had to be strong and get through this. As it was, he inhaled shakily and prepared for the worst. He could do this, he thought, _he could do this_.

John closed his eyes, all his senses on alert and pounding into his brain in painful clarity. He felt the too-hot radiation from the man's hands as he stroked the underside of his thighs firmly, gripping and making his way down to his entrance. John only hoped it was quick, he didn't know how much more of this he could take.

The Beta placed a thick, lubricated finger to John's opening, pushing in lightly with a purposeful rocking motion that John knew for certain was _not_ standard practice. John gulped in a heady rush of air, not realising he had been holding in his breath.

Gloved or not, the man's finger felt rough and intrusive. The pressure increased by volumes as the man hubbed his third knuckle against John's body, giving his now completely enveloped finger a little wiggle, as if testing the clench of the Omega's internal muscles. The movement was crude and profane, and John couldn't help the tension of his muscles as his body quite literally flinched halfway off the table.

"_What the hell_ –"

A sharp knock at the door interrupted John's stunned exclamation. Dr. Wilkes immediately removed his offending digit and tore off his gloves, clearing his throat in a vaguely guilty and off-putting manner.

"Yes, c-come in." The Beta was now sweating profusely, mopping at his brow with the already dampened sleeve of his lab coat. John took this moment to sit up on the table, scrambling to pull his gown down over his nether regions and glaring at the other man with a look that could only be described as intently murderous.

A fresh-faced young woman poked her head in, opening the door just a crack, seemingly trying to keep everyone's privacy intact. She seemed unaware of the oppressive tension between the two men.

"Dr. Wilkes, we've a few more applicants lined up outside and I thought I'd help move things along. I figured I can finish up with Mr. Watson while you start on the next?" She held a weathered clipboard close to her body, the metal clip at the top barely keeping the multitude of papers adequately clamped.

The Beta brightened suddenly, clenching his soiled gloves tightly in his hands. After a silent moment, he stuffed them in the pocket of his lab coat and slapped John loudly on the back, as if he hadn't just completely abused his trust and position as a healthcare provider.

"Right so…exam's all done John, Trudi here will draw your blood for some tests and then Dr. Adler will see you in a bit. Enjoy the rest of your day."

He fled the room in such a hurry that even the young woman clicked her teeth. She made an unhappy noise as he shut the door, a rush of stale air blowing back to ruffle John's fringe. A hint of vaguely floral essence wafted towards John and he took in the other woman fully; she seemed to be a Beta as well.

"He works too hard, that one. I've tried telling him to go on holiday but he doesn't listen to me."

She prattled on, gathering tubes, needles, and other supplies while John only half-listened. He wasn't interested in learning more about that monster, and he fully planned on pressing charges once the case was over. It wouldn't be surprising to him at all if he wasn't the first Omega Dr. Wilkes had done this to; but if John could help it, he would certainly be one of the last. Even if he had nothing to do with the deaths (which was doubtful), John would see him prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

He blinked vacantly at Trudi when she lifted a hand, touching his arm lightly, "Hello? You there?"

"Sorry," John flushed, coming back to himself and abandoning his vivid fantasy of the Doctor wasting away behind bars for the rest of his perverted life, "just a little tired, is all. What were you saying?"

She sat on the vinyl stool and motioned for John's arm, wrapping a bright orange tourniquet around his bicep when it was offered. John didn't have much in the way of fat (or muscle for that matter) right now, and his veins popped up instantly under the pressure. Lurid bluish streaks lined his arms, looking bizarre and strangely inhuman under the fluorescent light.

"I asked if you'd got your 'flu jab yet?" She repeated, disinfecting the crook of his arm as she prepared the needle and tubes for the blood draw.

"Uh no…I-I thought there was a shortage…" John blanched only slightly (he noted with a hint of pride) as she inserted the needle and filled tube after tube with gentle, smooth motions. She really was very good; John hoped she was only an innocent employee and not involved in the deaths of the young men.

Trudi untied the tourniquet and held pressure at the puncture site, making sure he didn't bleed out all over the table, while simultaneously flipping through the papers on the clipboard, "I thought so too, but we got a fresh shipment in just yesterday. Not sure how they pulled that one, but, because of your…because you…" She tripped over her words; clearly she was finding it difficult to state openly that John was homeless.

"Yes?" He bent his arm, holding his own pressure over the site now, pushing down the plaster with probably more force than necessary.

"Well, because of your _situation_, you're considered 'at risk.' Would you like one? It'll only take a moment, no charge. You don't have any allergies do you?"

She stood, gripping her now labelled blood tubes in one hand, the clipboard in another.

"Yes, alright I'll take one and no, no allergies. Thank you Trudi."

Her smile was tight as she left silently through the door; she wasn't unable to completely hide her own embarrassment at the situation. The Omega shook his head and began to dress, pulling on his vest and denims, but keeping his ragged jumper to the side.

The only good thing about this situation, he supposed, was the cash he would receive if he was accepted. There was no way in God's green earth he was going to ingest any kind of medication given to him, so he wasn't worried about any ill-effects. Maybe he could even save it up a bit and slowly crawl his way back to normalcy…well, maybe.

Trudi came back within five minutes, embarrassment resolved, and gripping a small multi-dose vial of clear liquid. It was only the work of a moment to receive the jab, and afterwards she squeezed his hand, green eyes full of warmth and caring.

"Go ahead and finish getting dressed, you can go and see Dr. Adler now. She's just down the hall, third door on the right."

And with that, she was gone.

The blond rubbed at his right deltoid lightly, wondering if this would be as bad as the tetanus jabs he remembered as a kid. Oh sure, they felt fine at first, but nothing compared to the soreness that developed the next day. He kneaded the muscle gently, trying to disperse the one millilitre of liquid as much as possible; he didn't need a sore arm on top of everything else that had already happened today.

John pulled on his jumper, unable to shake a certain sense of foreboding. His mind flew back to the iPhone lying on the bed next to him. He was suddenly very, very thankful that the mobile could only record sound; though, thoughts of what that abhorrent man said flew through his mind with unease. There would be questions, and John would not lie.

With a sigh born of someone who's prepared for the worst, he swept up his mobile and left the exam room. The Omega counted the doors till he found the correct one (why was nothing ever labelled in this place?), and knocked softly.

"Come in Dr. Watson." A melodious female voice floated out from behind the door, low and suspended in the air. It was smooth and varying in pitch, well-calculated and controlled.

He turned the brassy doorknob and let himself inside. The space was dark and cool, with plush carpeting that he had yet to see in any other room on this floor. Heavy brocade curtains blocked the light, and in the corner sat an elegant woman behind yet another large desk.

She was effortlessly beautiful; the kind of person one saw not in modern-day magazines, but in black and white celluloids from the thirties, ethereal and poised, the line of her lipstick so perfectly blood red one would swear it could cut glass.

She swept a heavy-lidded gaze over the diminutive Omega and smiled, brushing a hand to smooth over the glossy chignon secured at her neck.

"Excellent…so lovely to meet you," in one graceful motion, she stood, making her way noiselessly across the room. She swept one arm towards an overstuffed fainting couch nestled near the far wall, "Please, have a seat. We have so much to discuss, you and I."

Dr. Wilkes and Dr. Adler could not be more different. Dr Wilkes was a grotesque, bumbling excuse for a man, and Dr. Adler was a creature of the silver screen. How could these two have _possibly_ begun working together?

John lowered himself down onto the no doubt ridiculously overpriced piece of furniture. He wasn't a timid man by nature, but something about the woman's presence struck him so forcefully, he found himself at a loss for words. She took a seat next to him, impervious to this premature familiarity, and crossed one satiny leg over another. The hem of her snowy white dress lifted up an inch or so, and John found himself averting his eyes before he looked somewhere he oughtn't.

And then it hit him, squarely in-between the eyes, a scent absolutely overwhelming in its intensity. It was chocolate, vanilla, patchouli, sandalwood, and every other exotic spice he had ever scented in those far-away Afghani markets. She was an Omega, and she was perfection.

"So, I hope you don't mind if I call you John. I like to be on a first name basis with all of my patients," a ghost of a smile tugged at her carmine lips, "you can call me Irene, if you like. Or you can stick with Dr. Adler, depending on your preference. Do you…have a preference, John?"

He couldn't help but think that was a loaded question.

His jaw dropped, lips parting as he stared into her eyes, swirling and blue like liquid pools of sea-glass, "J-John is fine – Irene is fine."

"Good. I just need to go over a few things first. Simple really, just some background information."

"Alright."

"Let's start with your family."

"My…family?"

This was going to take a while.


	15. Chapter 15

Stupid. _Stupid._ _**Stupid!**_

What was he thinking? What was he _doing?_

Sherlock stalked down Baker Street, head held low, errant locks of ebon hair haphazardly tousled by strong wintry winds. His coat billowed behind him, a dark cloud flapping in whorls and flips like the cracking of a whip. Those unfortunate enough to come across the stormy apex Alpha either gave him a wide berth or crossed the street entirely. The pheromones he emitted - no, _broadcasted - _were wildly inappropriate for public places. They screamed of curled toes, writhing torsos, sweaty arched backs, hot shining skin, and a pair of limpid blue eyes he couldn't delete even if he wanted to.

Sherlock's mind palace spun in on itself, whirling like some kind of twisted carousel of John's skin, John's hair, John's scars, John's nipples, John's lips, John's ears, John's neck, _John's neck_, _John'sneckJohn'sneckJohn'sneckJohn'sneckJohn'sneckJohn'sneckJohn'sneckJoh-_

_There. _There it was. That man: early thirties, long time sun-bather judging by the premature age lines around his mouth and eyes, cares too much about his appearance, but poor.

'_Why poor?' John's pleasant tenor asked warily, amazement colouring his voice._ His jacket was linen, once expensive, but threadbare around the elbows.

'_How can you tell? There's patches on the elbows?' The Omega added a hint of laughter beneath the question, like maybe he thought Sherlock was just making things up. _Sherlock growled deep in his chest. The patches were vinyl, only made to imitate leather, the blazer was real linen, no designer in their right mind would combine the two, the stitches were uneven and sloppy, self-mended then with what he could find at any chain store, his pants unevenly hemmed; again the man could not afford a proper tailor, briefcase either borrowed or bought second hand.

'_How do you know_?' The initials of his pocket square do not match those on the peeling brass placard on the briefcase, could be the handkerchief was second hand but it is statistically more likely he would use a second-hand briefcase than a handkerchief, sentiment, shoes too small, hitch in his step, stilted gait, more pressure on the heel than on the toes, trying to prevent weight on the ball of his foot, probably heading off to an interview he is more than nervous about, judging by the intermittent and forceful blinking of his eyes...yes, more, more _more...distractions, he needed distractions!_

Sherlock spun around the street frantically, hands gripping the sides of his head as if his skull would split and the whole of his psyche would dribble out in clumps of electricity and brain matter. John's voice was inside his head, inside his Mind Palace, always there now, always, always, alwaysalways alwaysalways alwaysalways alwaysalways -

No! Stop this now! He was in control, _he was in control_. There was nothing wrong with him.

That woman: hair loss, most likely alopecia, chronic alopecia as evidenced by the tattooed eyebrows and slight discoloration around the edge of her hairline where her lace-front wig blended in with her skin tone, no eyelashes, no hair on the arms, not likely to be chemotherapy and less likely to go to such lengths as tattooing when hair will generally regrow within a few weeks of chemo cessation, there, _there! _

'_Sherlock,' John admonished, 'You're just showing off now.'_

No. _No. Get out of my head, John!_

Clues equal deductions equal solution. There was nothing wrong with his mind, there was nothing wrong with his thoughts, _there was nothing wrong with him!_

The loud, percussive jangle of his mobile brought his screaming thoughts to a halt. He fumbled in his pocket, trying with great effort to catch his breath and somehow expel the scent of John that seemed to have settled so intimately in his lungs. Jesus, how he _wanted._

He slid the bar on the touchscreen to answer, barking into the speaker, "Yes? What, Molly?"

The woman's voice on the other end was timid and fretful, but he didn't care. He needed a distraction, and this call couldn't have come at a better time.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

He exhaled in a huff, one fist gripping the fabric of his coat, wildly agitated, "Molly, save your fruitless questions and platitudes, it's neither warranted nor welcome and will do nothing to ingratiate yourself any further in my esteem. What do you want? Do make it quick!" He didn't have time for her nonsensical prattling.

"Um, okay," she squeaked in that infuriatingly mousy way of hers, "only I've just finished the post-mortem on Jimmy Price's body and…I think there's something you need to see. There's some unusual lab results and I think –"

"Excellent. Wait for me, do _nothing_ else until I get there," his pace quickened, a cab screeched to a halt next the kerb as soon as he lifted one graceful arm in the air.

"But Sherlock, I'm not –"

"Goodbye, Molly," he ended the conversation as abruptly as it began, sliding into the darkened cab interior and simultaneously bringing up the text window on his mobile.

**John, are you quite finished with your appointment yet? – SH**

**Meet me at St. Bart's morgue. Come at once if convenient – SH**

He didn't wait for a reply before firing off one more sharp text.

**If inconvenient, come all the same – SH**

* * *

"Why do you want to know about my family?" John was trying to force himself to relax, though it was mostly in vain. The opulence of the room did nothing to put him at ease, nor did the unearthly beauty of the Omega next to him. He couldn't help but compare himself to her. She was long and lean, skin milky and smooth; whereas he was short, weathered, broken, and obviously several dozen meals shy of what could be considered healthy.

"It's part of the interview process. I need to know about you, John – what you like, what you don't like. Becoming Formed at your age is a very big decision, and not one to be taken lightly. Myself, and the others in my group, need to make sure you're of sound mind before partaking in the study." The smooth cadence of her voice washed over him, and he found the tension in his muscles slowly seeping away. Everything about this woman was confounding: her scent, the way she sat, the way she held her head – inclined ever so slightly towards the blond – to the artful way she rested one perfectly manicured hand on the ball of her knee.

"Yes, well I've read the statistics though. There's no guarantee it'll work." The Omega responded, keeping direct eye contact with the woman.

"But there is a chance it might, and that would change your life completely…as it did mine."

For the first time since the meeting began, she smiled genuinely. It was like the sun splitting through the feathery linings of a cloud. John couldn't help but stare at her incredulously.

"_You? _You went through this study?"

She nodded once, "I did, and what you see are the results. I have to say I am quite pleased, though it took a bit of convincing to let them take me on as participating Doctor afterwards. You'd think they'd have rather liked a living, breathing representation of what they were offering."

John found this quite hard to believe, "I understand the medical staffs are usually picked by committee, what did you do?"

"Let's just say I know what they like," she winked at him slowly, as if they shared some private joke – a joke John knew absolutely nothing about, but wouldn't be averse to finding out. He had nothing on after all…at least nothing he couldn't heartlessly abandon.

"S-so you wanted to know about my family?" John prompted, ready to move forward with this interview and away from the frankly disturbing presence of Dr. Adler, "well, my mother and father both worked in the same factory, had done for years; that's how they met actually. They were both naturally Formed, my father being an Alpha and my mother an Omega. I guess they didn't understand what I was going through when I was younger, not given the chance for Formation myself; they never had to deal with the emotional…messiness…of being what I was. They weren't big on emotions at all, really."

The woman settled back into the couch as he spoke, leaning one slender arm on the sumptuously padded curve of the raised right end. He thought it odd that she took no notes, just observed him fiercely; much like a naturalist observes a fascinating specimen in the wild.

"My older sister is a naturally Formed Alpha, so she never understood what I went through either. I felt…very much an outsider in my own family, growing up. My parents started drinking when I was very young, and there wasn't much peace to be had in the Watson household after that," he paused for a minute to swallow, willing the obstructive bulk of suppressed emotion lodged in his throat to go away. He wasn't good at this sort of thing. He found it…difficult to express his feelings in this way, "they took me to several specialists when it became clear I wasn't going to have a secondary puberty, but in the end they decided that alcohol and gambling were more important than the happiness of their own son."

He averted his eyes, the lushly carpeted floor becoming incredibly interesting now, for John stared at it so severely he thought for sure the strength of his gaze would cause it to smoulder and burst into flames. He almost never talked about his family - and he _never _talked about the shame he felt at not quite being good enough to deserve a full gender like everyone else. He very much preferred to keep all of that locked inside, wrapped in a tiny red ball that he gripped so tightly to himself he wasn't sure where his gender shame ended and where John Watson began.

"You poor dear. I am very sorry you had to deal with all that; it's all so very hard when you're young. I was Unformed for most of my life also, so I think I can say very genuinely that I know how you feel."

The blond appreciated her commiseration, but in the end, that's all it was. He couldn't quite bring himself to meet her sympathetic gaze. Next to him on the couch, his mobile buzzed three times.

She regarded the mobile only for a moment, before addressing John once more, "and what will you do if this works?"

The man shrugged, his left shoulder releasing a sharp twinge of pain as he did so, "I'm not sure really. I don't want to get my hopes up. Maybe I'll…meet someone, start a new life, maybe build a new family," thoughts of Sherlock filled his mind's eye. What would it be like to be with a man such as him? Would his life be full of excitement and mystery, or would the apex Alpha soon grow bored and move on to the next scintillating new puzzle? No, Sherlock deserved someone more like Irene, someone perfect and interesting, "I don't see them much anyway, both my parents died when I was in medical school, and my sister frequents the jailhouse nearly as often as she frequents the local pubs. I'd be surprised if she even realized I still existed. I guess they care as much about me now as they did then…which is not much at all."

The blond Omega didn't mean for that last answer to come out quite so morose, nor did he mean for it to be the truth. Half the reason he ended up on the streets (besides it being an actual choice), was the fact that he really had no family to speak of. His sister, well, he'd given up on her years ago. He had no idea where she lived, or if she was even still alive after all these years. Their correspondence dried up while John was still in the Army, and when he'd tried to reconnect upon his return, her address had changed with no forwarding information to be found.

He supposed he could have hired someone to find her, but he didn't really have the money for that at the time, so he just…let it slide. He just let it all slide.

"Well, I think you are a perfect candidate for the study, John." The woman stated with finality. She lifted herself up from the couch, smoothing her snug white dress to her svelte form. John wondered what kind of imaginary wrinkles she was seeing, as that garment fit her like a glove. Like a very expensive glove that left little to the imagination.

She crossed the room in a few measured strides, and John noticed for the first time that she was barefoot. The lissom beauty flexed and arched her feet with every step, as if enjoying the tactile sensation of soft carpet upon her soles. When she reached her desk, she pulled out a small silver key on a delicate chain from somewhere within its drawers.

"Now, if you'll excuse me a moment, I'm going to gather the first week's supply of your medication. Don't worry, I'll be quick." She exited through an adjoining door just off the way from the desk, still not bothering to put on any footwear.

This struck John as particularly odd but, he wasn't one to judge. Perhaps she found shoes too confining? He found that hard to believe, since her dress was practically spray-painted on.

He took this time to check his mobile, unlocking the screen and making sure the transmission app was still in clear working order. According to the status updates and various graphs and wavy lines, he supposed it was. He sighed inwardly, now everyone who was listening in knew about his family, his sister, their history. That didn't quite sit well with him but, there was nothing for it now. John was generally a very private man and this case was opening old wounds he'd rather kept locked away, never to see the light of day.

He minimized the app, opened his texts, and snorted into the empty, dim room. Of course it would be Sherlock, demanding his time regardless of whether or not the Omega was actually available. He read carefully through each line and was about to text his own, plodding reply (keyboards weren't really his thing), when Dr. Adler appeared once more.

She approached him with her arm outstretched; holding a silver blister pack of medication identical to the one Jimmy Price had shown him only days ago. On the smooth foiled back, a sticker was attached with John's full name, birthdate, and some kind of serial number.

"Take these once a day and Jeremy will set you up with appointments twice a week." The woman rummaged through yet another deep drawer in her desk, pulling out a thin booklet that looked to be some kind of information packet, "this explains what the medication is, how it works, and what kind of side effects you may experience. All in all, we don't generally see too many adverse reactions but, better safe than sorry."

John took both items, pocketed them in his worn jeans and placed his phone in the opposite pocket. He then stood, expecting to be dismissed.

Dr. Adler watched the Omega with a wary eye, keeping the desk between them like a giant wooden barrier, "Please do let us know if you start feeling unwell, or if you begin experiencing any of the more serious side effects. We want our participants healthy and safe, do you understand?"

"Yes Dr-I mean Irene, I understand, and I will."

"Good, thank you John, I'll see you in a few days." And with that dismissal, she sat down on her richly upholstered chair and busied herself with what looked like mounds of charts. John didn't hesitate to let himself out.

The bright whiteness of the hallway was almost blinding compared to the shadowy interior of Dr. Adler's office. It took him a long moment to adjust, and he limped his way down the hallway towards the reception area.

No one looked towards the good doctor as he exited into the large conference room. Jeremy was happily chatting away with another young man, who clutched a handful of forms just like John had done not too long ago.

He waited, not wanting to be rude and interrupt, but it didn't take long before both men became aware of his presence.

"Another participant! Lovely!" An older, ginger-haired fellow smiled at John, his face open and friendly. "How was it? I'm a wee bit nervous I can tell you, how'd it go?"

"Erm, it was…fine. Just an exam and interview process, nothing too difficult." John was reluctant to share any more information with this new Omega, in fact, knowing what he knew now; he didn't want him to go in at all.

"Dr. Adler wants me to schedule you for your next few appointments." Jeremy jumped in, rapidly moving his hands across the keyboard, the clacking noise echoing in the large, practically empty, space.

John nodded and glanced back over at the other man. He wanted to warn him, he wanted to tell him to get away from here and go back to his home, his life. But how could he do this without blowing his cover? A sharp pang of guilt and regret wrenched through his chest, he only hoped that this man would come to no harm.

John accepted the appointments with a reserved smile, and as he passed through the room, he paused only a moment to lean towards the ginger-haired man, "_Be careful_," was all he could say; he only hoped it would be enough.

The Omega gave him a confused, somewhat bewildered stare, but then shrugged and returned to his paperwork; probably thinking John was some kind of nutter.

As the blond made his way down the lifts and back outside the towering building, he pulled out his phone:

**I'm on my way – JW**

Then he made sure to end the app transmitting audio to Mycroft and his stooges, he had had enough willful prying into his private life for one day.

* * *

Sherlock hovered over the livid body of Jimmy Price. His nervous, frantic energy had yet to dissipate, and only served to make the timid woman behind him even more reticent to interrupt his thoughts. Finally, though, she could delay no longer.

Molly Hooper was a naturally Formed Omega, and her scent (barely discernible over the stench of the morgue) was reminiscent of tulips, anise, and all manner of delicate things that should be nurtured and protected. She stood behind Sherlock, clutching a folder and worrying her lower lip. When she decided he had taken quite enough time inspecting the body yet again, she cleared her throat, meeting Sherlock's shining eyes with a meaningful, yet thoroughly submissive stare.

"As I was saying before, there were some unusual results in his lab tests, but first…the autopsy." She placed the folder on an adjacent table and pulled the heavy white sheet away from the body, revealing his mangled face and the large 'Y' incision indicative of all autopsies. Further down, the large gash in his lower abdomen had been cleaned and carefully stitched together. It was clear there wasn't much they could do for the poor boy's face.

"During the examination, I noticed all of the same features as the previous murders. The ovaries and uterus were meticulously removed," she pointed towards the lower abdomen, then waved her hand further up the abdomen, "as well as the adrenal and pituitary glands. I'm not exactly sure they bashed his head in for that one, removing the pituitary can easily be achieved by going through the nose. This poor man, I hope he was already dead when they did that."

Sherlock sighed impatiently, grasping his hands behind his back in an effort to keep from touching the body himself. He pursed his lips, trying his very best to remain indulgent while Molly insisted on being overly poetic and emotional about the dead body in front of her.

"So, I was expecting all of that, honestly. But, then I found this..." She turned away, moving towards a refrigerator near the stainless steel sinks. It was overly large, industrial, and used to store specimens, organs, and other highly frangible samples. The glass doors opened with a groan and she pulled out a small bottle filled with what could be formalin, or some other kind of clear preservative.

"I haven't written up the full report yet, but I wanted to tell you first." She blushed prettily, though it was wholly lost on the consulting detective, "This is an inguinal lymph node, one of many I gathered from the body, and all you really need do is just look at it to realize it's not normal. The tissue is granulomatous, undifferentiated, and it's quite larger than it should be."

She passed the specimen to Sherlock, who handled it with unusual care. It was fascinating. The tawny-coloured clump of tissue bobbed and swayed, suspended in the liquid as the brunet turned the container to and fro.

"Get to the point, Molly." Sherlock was a genius, of course, but there was only so much he could do without taking and analysing the lymphatic tissue for himself.

The mousy Omega tucked one wayward lock of hair behind her ear nervously, "Well, I took the liberty of running some specialised blood tests, and the answers were positive for certain tumour markers, Sherlock, specifically HCG. It's quite possible he had some kind of cancer - most likely ovarian, or something of that nature."

Sherlock placed the bottle down on the table next to the file; then eagerly flipped through the pages inside the manila folder, showing the lab results Molly had just been describing. He absorbed the information quickly, eyes flitting back and forth over numbers, charts, acceptable parameters, and the like.

"What do you think this means, Sherlock?" Molly's soft voice sounded from behind the Alpha, a hint of sadness colouring her tone.

"I – I need more data, what about th-" Sherlock's mobile dinged once, announcing a text message.

He gripped the mobile in one hand while gathering the test results in another.

Good. John was on his way.


	16. Chapter 16

John exited the central London eyesore, limping even more noticeably than before. The drizzling, gloomy rain was almost a balm to the Omega's frazzled nerves. After the blinding glare of the endless, white corridor and the furtive darkness of Dr. Adler's office, the low, grey clouds comforted him in a way he never imagined they could (he _had_ grown up in England after all).

St. Bart's was a bit of a distance from the Highlands Centre, so it was either the tube or a cab. Since the Omega was passably clean and wearing some of his better clothing, he figured the tube would be the most economical. He was just about to descend into the closest Underground station when his mobile dinged once again.

With a huff, he pulled out the iPhone, expecting yet another demanding text from Sherlock Holmes himself. Why he suffered the indignity of being ordered about by the apex Alpha, he'd never know…oh wait…he did know. He allowed the overbearing detective to do as he wished because he was mysterious, brilliant, exceptional, and all manner of other highly descriptive words for 'amazing' John could think of.

He was, in fact, everything John was not – and this was why the blond chose to bend to his will. That, and his rather intense crush (he refused to call it love, though he knew it to be true) that refused to lessen no matter what the infuriating man did.

John felt a certain heaviness settle in his chest, a type of breathless, squeezing pressure clasping about his lungs so that inhaling became more than just difficult, but a distant memory. He felt this often now, when he thought about the Alpha and how they were both so different. They both came from such vastly opposite worlds that it still mystified John as to how he managed to become caught in the taller man's orbit. The only problem was that the trajectory of said orbit (his more than Sherlock's) seemed to be circling ever and ever closer, till he could only imagine the two of them colliding and neither of them being the better for it. Of the two of them, only one would survive such an impact, and John was certain it would not be an ex-army doctor with a bum hip and disfigured shoulder.

All of these thoughts aside, John grudgingly checked the text on his mobile, and was more than a bit surprised to see it was not from Sherlock at all.

**Get in the car – MH**

Ah, _Mycroft Holmes it was then_, John thought with a snort. This man simply had_ nothing_ on David Cameron – for one thing he was entirely too uppity and supercilious, and really who carries a brolly around like that nowadays anyway?

The Omega wasn't entirely sure he was ready to meet with the imposing Alpha (Sherlock's brother notwithstanding), as he'd just been through an experience that had tested the very limits of his patience and sanity. He hadn't had to use so much self-control since basic training in the army, and he was very nearly at his limit as to how much more abuse he could handle.

After a long and calming breath, he swiped the already smudged surface of the mobile, about to reply, when a large black sedan came to a rolling stop just beside him on the kerb. John eyed it cautiously, one could never be too careful.

But it was all for naught, for a soon as the car came to a full stop, the tinted window lowered and Mycroft Holmes himself peered out dramatically from the darkly leathered inside.

"If you'd be so kind," the older man began, "I do so hate to wait."

John sighed, exasperated, and let himself inside, unceremoniously plunking himself down and taking in the remarkably posh interior. It was positively cavernous, and John wondered if there wasn't some kind of extra-dimensional TARDIS-like effect going on that he wasn't aware of.

"Yes, Mycroft, what is it? I was just on my way to -"

"St. Bartholomew's, yes, I know," he uncrossed his legs and lifted a very thin and expensive looking laptop from beside him on the seat cushion onto his lap, there he opened it a commenced a sort of rapid fire typing that filled the car with all manner of clacking and clicking John could have just as easily done without, "Doctor Watson, when my brother and I recruited you to help us in this case, we both assumed we'd have your utmost cooperation."

The blond furrowed his brow, more than little confused. Did he seriously just question John's devotion to resolving the murders?

"I don't understand," the Omega couldn't help but let a bit of righteous anger colour his words, "how dare you -"

"Listen to this please," the insufferably unruffled man interrupted yet again, cool as you please, as he pressed one more button on his laptop.

It was loud and clear as a bell, John's own voice floated across the short distance between them. Mycroft was playing back the recording John himself had made just a few short hours ago (it was going on 4 o'clock now), and the Omega_ certainly_ wasn't ready to listen to this.

"Mycroft, I don't need to -"

"Just listen, John. It's a very simple request, really." The man angled the computer away from him and towards the blond, supposedly so he could hear better, but John already knew what was on the recording.

So, he was to be humiliated again was he? Well, it wasn't like he didn't know it was coming…and honestly, better Mycroft then Sherlock.

John suffered in silence as his previously recorded self chatted rather uncomfortably with Dr. Wilkes. Just the sound of that bastard's voice made John' skin crawl; the memory of his hand and his fingers in those places…but _no_, John wasn't going to go there now, that was for another day and another time.

He could clearly hear Dr. Wilkes introduce himself, explain about the bloodwork and physical, etc., and then the tell-tale squeak of the door closing. A rustle of clothing indicated John was changing into his hospital gown and then that was followed by a longish few moments of silence.

John was about to expect Dr. Wilkes to reappear at any time during the recounting but all he heard, quite suddenly, was a loud, obnoxious sounding cacophony of white noise emanating from the laptop. The Omega couldn't hear anything now, just that horrendous continuous static. He looked up to Mycroft, face white with alarm.

"And that is what continues for the next one hour and thirty-five minutes." He folded his laptop shut with a loud crack.

If John didn't know better, he would think Mycroft was angry, but it was hard to tell – the man kept his face so expertly stilled and unresponsive, one could almost never be sure what he was thinking.

He couldn't be serious though. Mycroft couldn't actually think John had somehow sabotaged the recording?

The Omega thinned his lips and reached into his denims, pulling out his mobile and tossing it to the other man, "You can test it if you like. I swear to you Mycroft, it was transmitting the entire time, I made sure to check. If there is any fault involved, it _doesn't_ lie with me."

The Alpha caught the mobile smoothly, "My team will run a full diagnostic and try to recover what information might still be available, while you're," a slight pregnant pause inserted itself here, "visiting my brother at St. Bartholomew's. But rest assured if you've somehow managed to tamper with the device, your services will most definitely no longer be needed."

John turned away, looking through the tinted window and outside into the bustling streets of London. It was all he could do to still his rage, breathing exercises be damned.

_How dare he?_

After all John had been though today, after everything, how dare he just assume it was his fault their plan had gone all pear-shaped? Of course they didn't know what had happened, they didn't know about Dr. Wilkes -

Then a thought occurred to him – if they didn't know about the 'examination,' then John was blessedly spared the humiliation of trying to explain how he let himself be sexually assaulted by a vile man calling himself a medical professional. Well, thank heaven for small mercies.

He breathed in, "Look, I'll tell you everything that happened. I want to help, I really do. I don't know what went wrong with the mobile, but I still have a brain and while I know both you and your brother are fairly certain I'm an idiot, I can still make and store memories, yeah?"

Mycroft looked dubious, "The average human memory is only sixty-two percent accurate, are you certain you can remember _everything?_"

John got the strange feeling that Mycroft was making fun of him now, that somehow underneath the ice-man façade, a nasty sense of humour lay dormant, waiting for the right time to strike out and immobilize its next unsuspecting victim.

He forced a smile, trying to make it look as insincere as possible, "Well I shall try then, shall I?"

* * *

When John finally escaped the obviously government issued car, he felt even more mentally exhausted than before. Mycroft had certainly put him through the ringer, and made sure to record their entire conversation on his own laptop, to which he assured John would work perfectly and not 'suddenly devolve into a symphony of mysterious white noise.'

That _man, _that fulsome, oily twat. John had gladly pummelled bullies like him in the Army, and it was too bad he couldn't do so now. He muttered an angry 'good riddance,' as he slammed the black door shut and limped briskly away from the sedan and into the double doors of the hospital. He still didn't have his mobile, Mycroft assured the analysis would be complete by this evening, and even though he'd lived quite happily on the streets without one for months, he suddenly felt quite naked without that brick of metal and plastic nestled quietly inside his jeans.

St. Bart's was largely unchanged from his time in medical school. Of course, there were updates, some new renovations, new hallways, new rooms and equipment – but essentially the layout was the same. So it took no great effort to find his way to the morgue, probably his least favourite area of them all, even as a doctor who was quite used to seeing dead bodies.

He peered surreptitiously through the small windows situated in the wooden double doors that allowed entrance to the morgue. The inside was familiar, cold lockers, metal tables, and a wild madman flitting about with his hands in the air and a small, demure looking woman watching him with rapt and undivided attention. _Ah_, John thought, _yet another unsuspecting victim caught in the fabric that is Sherlock Holmes._

He felt very sorry for her, just as he (sometimes) felt very sorry for himself.

The Omega announced his presence by opening the doors and clearing his throat. The young woman started, quite violently, as her attention was so wholly on the apex Alpha that she hadn't spared any energy for anything else. She smelled faintly of flowers and rain, and John realized she was an Omega, like him…but she was Formed, unlike him. That would explain her worshipful glances and near covetous behaviour around Sherlock. Again, he felt very sorry for her, just as surely as he had felt sorry for Sarah when she had first been introduced to Sherlock.

As for Sherlock himself, he rushed past the mousy woman without a thought and scrutinized John from head to toe. It was patently unnerving, and John could feel his face flush with the intensity of his gaze.

"You've seen my brother," he sniffed with obvious disdain, "you smell like him."

"Well, yes, he picked me up in a car to discuss the meeting. It wasn't my choice, I assure you -"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock turned on his heel and stalked to the nearest metal table, "he manages to poke his gigantic nose into all manner of things, quite needlessly. It's very _annoying_."

"Ahem," the young woman cleared her throat, very clearly vying for attention between the two, "Hello, I'm Molly Hooper. I'm Sherlock's pathologist – I mean I'm not _his_ Pathologist, that is to say, I _am_ a Pathologist. But I do work with Sherlock when he needs me, which is quite nearly always…I mean not always, but sometimes, with the post-mortems and the p-pathology…"

She stammered to an uncomfortable end there, apparently quite mortified at her own botched introduction. Molly seemed to mean well, but tripped over her own words and actions quite easily. It really was quite endearing.

Sherlock seemed to ignore all of this and focus on a slide filled with some sort of tissue secured underneath an even more expensive looking microscope than the one he had in his flat.

"Hello Molly, I'm John, er, Dr. John Watson." His smile was genuine as he took her hand, giving it a gentle shake. Her skin was soft; her bones fine and bird-like and John instantly wondered if she had a bloke.

"Right, yes, introductions, lovely, yes, moving forward. Molly, John; John, Molly. _Tedious_." Sherlock grumbled from above his specimen, obviously perturbed that he was not at their centre of attention, "John, you_ finally_ made it; I texted you ages ago."

Molly offered a small little smile at Sherlock's comment and began to busy herself; staining specimens and preparing slides for Sherlock to analyse at his leisure. She seemed a quiet kind of person actually, quite content in doing what was asked of her (by Sherlock at least).

"It's been less than forty-five minutes Sherlock." The blond adopted a tone of voice used to placate angry adults or mollify small children.

"I'll have to have words with my brother about interfering in my cases, he mucks everything up and then I have to clean up after him." He pulled the current slide out of the microscope and replaced it with yet another, this one containing a brownish looking blob that could very well be anything.

"Well, we had some problems with the surveillance. After you…" John paused, and it suddenly became clear to him that this was the first time he'd seen the Alpha since the incident in the hallway. He wasn't quite sure what to say now. Should he mention it? Should be ignore it and pretend it never happened? He shifted his stance abruptly, thrown by his emotions, memories and sensations forcing themselves unheeded into his mind's eye.

Sherlock, having sensed John's hesitation, immediately looked up from his equipment, catching John's rattled expression; it didn't take much deducing to understand what was going through the Omega's thoughts right now.

In a rare show of consideration (and almost kindness), Sherlock's expression softened, as if to say: _another time, John, we've more important matters to discuss now_.

John blinked and shook his head, fringe glancing upon his forehead lightly, "Right, well um, after you left, we decided to use my mobile to transmit audio from during the appointment. But afterwards, all that was recorded was just a bit of noise, bit bothersome actually."

The Alpha scoffed, as if unsurprised, "Oh? White noise you say? Fascinating! Tell me John, do you really think an operation that is systematically experimenting on and killing latent Omegas isn't going to have some kind of anti-surveillance equipment installed?" He stood away from the polished metal table now, peering at the Omega as if the question wasn't just a hypothetical, but actually expected an answer.

"Wait a minute? Experimenting? Who said anything about experimenting? I thought we were just investigating murders? You said yourself the drugs were only placebos. Oh and by the way…" He reached into his pocket and pulled out the blister pack of capsules identical to the one's Jimmy had not so long ago. "Here's this, not much to bring back, for my troubles." He dropped the pack unceremoniously on the table where Molly picked it up with a delicate hand. Sherlock returned to his microscope, twirling and fiddling with the knobs with practised ease.

"What are these?" She asked, turning her head towards John, the tail end of her ponytail catching on her shoulder.

"Capsules taken by Jimmy before he died. He'd given me a sample, but Sherlock found them to just be sugar pills really. No actual medication at all. So…explain to me again about this experimenting? And what is that you're looking at exactly?" The line of tawny blob filled slides had only increased since John had entered the morgue, and he was more than a bit curious as to what they actually contained.

"Lymph nodes," Molly offered, handing Sherlock the next slide as he pulled another one out from under the clips, "Jimmy's actually. Since you've been working with Sherlock, you probably already know that certain, um, organs had been removed from his body. During my post-mortem on Mr. Price; I found this suspicious looking lymph node, well, lots actually, and Sherlock's confirming my diagnosis."

"Which is?" He looked from Molly to Sherlock, who sighed and moved away from the eyepieces.

"Cancer, John. These nodes are riddled with cancerous cells, which means that whatever cancer Jimmy had had already metastasized. When Molly ran the tumour markers, they featured heavily in Human Chorionic Gonadotropin, also known as HCG. Most cancers stemming from germ cells, ovarian or testicular cancers, release this hormone in mass quantities giving us a -"

John had to stop him there and remind that Alpha that he was, in fact, a highly educated medical professional, "Yes Sherlock, I_ am_ a medical doctor, I'm familiar with how this works. But apart from the cancer, if a study is trying to initiate a synthetic Formation in a latent Omega, high levels of HCG in their bloodwork would not be out of the ordinary. It _is_ that specific hormone that we lack at puberty that makes us latents, after all."

"No, John," Molly interjected, her face gone quite pale and serious, "what we're saying is each and every one of these cells is pumping out immense quantities of this hormone, more than any human could possibly need. We don't know what caused the cancer initially but if someone wanted to almost…manufacture this hormone, well, they'd have the perfect system right here."

"So," John looked at the slides, all lined up in a row, appearing as innocuous as crepe paper under their slips, "you're saying that they…that this…could be -"

"Organ harvesting John, and specifically the cancerous organs; each cancerous cell is a clone of one another, they are all identical," Sherlock's voice softened, taking on an almost distracted quality, "are you familiar with the process of creating human recombinant DNA?"

"Well, vaguely. I mean, it's not something I come across quite often as a GP." John did not like where this conversation was going _at all._

"I'm sure you've heard of those weird glow in the dark fish though, right?" Molly prompted, "That's how they do that. The recombinant DNA, it doesn't necessarily have to be human, may or may not express itself, but if it does, it becomes part of the genome. This new DNA can produce all manner of proteins and create a myriad of effects not seen before in nature...like glowing fish."

"So, you're saying that they're harvesting these organs to create this recombinant DNA? I agree that that is not standard practice for Formation, but this _is _a study. It doesn't seem too unusual that genetic therapy would be a new viable option for Formation."

Sherlock pounded his fist on the table, forcefully, with a rage that knocked over more than a few slides and rattled the microscope. Both John and Molly took a startled step backwards, frightened by the man's sudden and seemingly unwarranted fury.

"_You're not listening John!" _He roared, spinning around in a circle until he rested both hands on the edges of the cool metal table. Molly squeaked nervously beside the blond, placing a hand over her mouth and looking for all the world like she was going to burst into tears. John placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, squeezing ever so gently.

"I believe this is no longer about Formation. I believe they are trying to – to fundamentally change their subjects. I believe they are trying to create something _new_." Sherlock continued to stare at the table, lips twitching with emotions only barely held in check, "Don't you see? Can't you all see? This is…playing God, this is beyond Formation. This is creating a new gender or-or a new species."

"Sherlock," John offered quietly, voice neutral and non-threatening, as if he was dealing with a very unstable animal, "what you're saying, it can't be true. You can't just make up a new kind of human. That kind of technology doesn't really exist, does it? I mean, that's the kind of stuff you read about in those crazy tabloids that talk about the Bat-Child and three thousand year old mummies coming back to life. It can't possibly be true." He looked to Molly, who nodded her head in agreement, wispy trails of loosened hair floating about her ears.

"It could be." A clear, smug voice rang out in the morgue, followed by the tell-tale _tap tap _of the tip of an umbrella against a tiled floor.

"Sherlock, have I ever told you about Baskerville?"


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft's spit-shined shoes clicked noisily on the tiled floor. He looked pensive, and more than a little ill-at-ease as he slid his expensive leather laptop case on an empty metal table adjacent to Sherlock's ad hoc workstation.

John perked at the mention of Baskerville, he had actually heard of it before, and glanced over at Sherlock to see a quick flash of confusion pass across his handsome face. The Omega allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction in knowing something the apex Alpha did not; he allowed this, because he wasn't sure it would ever happen again.

"Yes, Baskerville," John spoke to Mycroft, who was busily booting up his computer, "very secretive Army base and all that. Very hush-hush, I suppose." He looked at Molly, who was peering at the older Alpha with curiosity plainly written across her face, then back to Mycroft.

"What does that have to do with anything, _Mycroft?"_ Sherlock spat, as if his brother's name itself was something odious and distasteful. It seemed he was over his initial bout of confusion, "I thought you were supposed to be analysing the data from John's infiltration, or were you side-tracked by a delicious slice of pie?"

"Delegation, brother dear," the older man ignored the stab at his propensity towards pastries and slipped a thumb drive into his freshly booted laptop, "although I don't think we will need it after all. The initial few minutes were informative enough to gain us a substantial lead. Quite auspicious, don't you think?"

"Didn't take very long did it, I've only just left your car half an hour ago," John stated, leaning on the table, wondering what exactly was on that thumb drive.

"Don't be _impressed_ John, the only thing the British Government excels at is sticking its fat nose into my cases with alarming expediency." Sherlock huffed, pulling another slide under the metal tines of the microscope. Molly snorted inelegantly next to him, and then covered her mouth as if she realized she should probably behave herself in front of Sherlock's very powerful older brother.

"Excuse me," she sniffed meekly, "I um…just had a tickle in my…throat…err…" She flushed terribly, gathering a few bits of papers here and there before announcing she was off to lunch. The door swung back a forth a few times before settling on its hinges. John was rather bemused at her hasty retreat into St. Bart's proper – though, this had the unfortunate side effect of leaving him alone with the Holmes brothers, something he was not particularly happy about.

"If you both would kindly pay attention, I have a video that I believe will be of some import to the investigation," Mycroft inclined his head forward a bit before bringing up a window on his computer. John stared at the bright white triangle marked 'Play,' wondering what this new development would entail, and grateful that his time in that god-awful place had not been wasted after all.

Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh and managed to pull himself away from his rather avid slide inspection.

"Do make it quick Mycroft, some of us have actual legwork to do, and we both know how much _that _appeals to you," Sherlock quipped, turning around to lean against the cold metal edge of the table, well within view of the laptop's high definition screen.

Mycroft's pleasantly forced smile soured, devolving into a sort of misshapen frown that reminded John of a documentary on rare frogs he'd once seen on the telly.

"This is very important information, Sherlock. Don't make the mistake of thinking you are the only one who has a vested interest in this case," his long index finger hovered over the 'enter' key for a moment longer, "if you can manage to keep quiet for more than two moments, you will be well rewarded, I assure you."

"Can we just watch the damn thing please? Having to listen to you two bicker about like old ladies is giving me a headache, for God's sake Mycroft!" John placed the heel of his left hand to his temple, rubbing at the skin there, slightly annoyed at the dull ache beginning to grow and branch out behind his eyes.

"Let me preface this by saying the…experiment was dissolved several years ago. Most of the information is highly classified, redacted, or has been destroyed entirely. Even I had to call in a few favours for this bit of information. To give you an understanding of what you are about to see – well, let me just say that the entire production was rife with ethical and legal issues."

Finally, with a _clack_ of the 'enter' key, the video began to play.

The quality was poor, the colour washed out and grainy, but the audio seemed to be perfectly intact.

"_Dr. Frankland – day 2 on Project Kafka – subject IO. Subjects JS, RM, PH, and OL have been discontinued at this time. Subject IO shows great promise, and has had only a minimal reaction to the primary inoculation. Subject maintains low-grade fever, headache, diaphoresis, slight nausea, and widespread muscle weakness. All of these symptoms are congruent with the common symptoms of the attenuated Influenza B virus used to introduce the Package into her system."_

The camera wobbled a bit as the man speaking, Dr. Frankland apparently, took it into hand and the film panned across a sterile white room. The picture dimmed in and out for a quick moment, but finally focussed on a young woman strapped down to a slim cot. She had her face turned away from the camera, and only her long dark hair was visible. She was thin, extremely so, and seemed to tremble slightly, her soft blue scrub-like clothing sticking to her body in dark, sweaty splotches. Soft foam and velcro restraints fastened her wrists and ankles, making it quite certain she could not move from her cot. Intermittent moans wavered in and out from her general direction.

"_This is, by far, the most success we've had to date. Previous subjects were…regrettably resistant to the Package, and as such developed glandular and reproductive tumours of alarming size. Fortunately, we've been able to harvest a considerable amount of nHCG from the remains, and will continue the schedule of secondary hormonal injections into IO using the genetically enhanced gonadotropin. Extensive testing has proved this latent is indeed a carrier of the VO2A3 gene, previously thought to be a genetic leftover. Both my partner and I feel this is the key to the transformation and believe once the gene is activated and expressed, along with constant stimulation by the modified gonadotropin, the change will be complete."_

The playback cuts out to black, then immediately restarts. John tried to resist a wave of vertigo caused by the constant 'shaky-cam' style of video. He suddenly wished he had some meclizine on hand, or anything to stop the faint uneasiness beginning to curdle in his stomach.

He'd never had an extremely strong opinion on human trials and experimentations. After all, he himself volunteered to test a possibly dangerous new drug, even if it was for a case. But there was something about this experiment that didn't seem right. He thought back to what Mycroft had said; that the study was rife with legal and ethical issues.

Putting that thought aside for now, all three men focussed once more on the video.

It showed the same white room, but instead of just a disembodied voice talking over the video feed, the camera was suddenly filled with the harried face of an older man. His white hair formed a halo about his ears and a tuft gathered at his crown stuck practically straight up like a strange array of especially fine antennae. He looked excited - wild even - as he began to speak.

"_Dr. Frankland – day 3 of Project Kafka – the subject IO continues to display worsening symptoms commonly associated with influenza. Though sedated, she continues to resist our efforts at alleviating her pain. Further blood tests have shown the production of a heretofore unknown hormone which is very similar to those that commonly exists in all Formed Omegas, synthetically or otherwise. During our analyses, we identified and isolated an additional protein ring in the basic structure of the molecule that we believe makes it unique to all Omegas. We also believe this may finally be the expression of the VO2A3 gene. We are tentatively naming this altered hormone vHCG. Its effects on the latent Omega have yet to be seen, though subject IO appears to be doing well."_

John heard low moaning, once again, in the background; but it sounded closer than it did in the earlier recording. He hazarded a glance to the two brothers, both of whom seemed too engrossed in the video to pay any attention to the Omega's curious stare. With a swallow, he continued to watch.

"_With the long overdue recognition of the vertex gene, I believe its activation can be possible on any latent Omega but is wholly dependent upon our careful –"_

"_Doctor! Come quickly, Jesus – quickly!"_

A frantic voice from off screen broke into Dr. Frankland's narration. The camera wobbled, then was abruptly placed on its side, giving the audience a full (although sideways) view of Dr. Frankland and two other men (possibly aides) gathering around the small cot in the centre of the room.

John, Mycroft, and Sherlock all turned their heads to the side, enrapt, and moving in tandem like some kind of bizarre synchronized swimming routine. The motion left John's head swimming, making him feel even dizzier that the uncoordinated filming did before.

The scene focussed on the cot, whereupon the young woman (John assumed the same woman as before, it certainly looked to be the case) was partially obscured by the bodies of the men leaning over her. A quiet, but insistent, rattling sound made its way through Mycroft's small laptop speakers, growing louder and louder and sounding quite like a heavy tin can clattering against a linoleum floor. John only had a moment to wonder what exactly would make such a noise, when suddenly there was another shout. Dr. Frankland leant over the young woman, quickly assessing her form before viciously gripping the lab coat of the man next to him.

"_She's having a seizure!" _Dr. Frankland tightened the restraints on her wrists and shouted to the two other men on the scene.

"_Christ! Lenny, hold her head! Wha – what the hell are you doing, man? I said hold her head!"_

A younger man, wearing similar light blue scrubs, took the woman's head in his hands. His eyes were wide as saucers. He appeared terrified.

"_Get the midazolam – no you fool, the IN syringe –never-mind, I'll get it myself!"_

Dr. Frankland stormed across the room and out of the view of the camera; meanwhile the young woman's face (grasped ineffectually by the frightened looking aide) had finally turned towards the camera. Her expression was twisted; a grimace, with eyes rolled upwards and to the left, her neck contracted so tightly one could easily see the strain on the muscles and tendons. Her mouth was stuck in a rigor of tightly clenched teeth, lips curling back only to allow a bubbling blood-tinged froth to seep from her mouth and onto the bleached white pillow. The woman continued to jerk and convulse against the restraints, though they (thankfully) held tight.

An eerie silence came over the video, punctuated all the more by the stuttered breathing of the aide. The test subject grunted, staring sightlessly at the camera, each groan accented by another contraction of her entire body. The foam at her mouth oozed a darker red.

"_Jesus man, she – she's bleeding!" _The aide cried, horror clearly written on his young face.

Dr. Frankland appeared once more, quickly leaning down towards the cot and grasping the woman's jaw in one strong hand. In his right hand he held a thick sort of syringe, though there was no needle at the tip, only a kind of odd white cone. With the practised hand of a seasoned medical doctor (John knew the type, ultimately cool under pressure), he pushed the syringe firmly into one nostril and pulled down on the plunger quickly, injecting an unknown amount of vaporised fluid up the woman's nose and into her nasal passages.

He tossed the used syringe to the side but kept his hands firmly on her jaw. He didn't even look away when he shouted –

"_For God's sake Martin, turn that damn thing off!"_

The video ended abruptly, going immediately to black, and then switching to a more familiar snowy background.

Mycroft and Sherlock remained silent, both taking in the events of the recording.

John, face pale and wan, took a step back and bumped into the metal table behind him. His eyes were still glued to the static on the screen. It wasn't that the video was terribly frightening; he had seen and lived through much worse (he was an army doctor after all), it was the fact that when all was said and done, he had somehow managed to recognize the young woman on the video.

At first he hadn't been sure…even when her face had been turned towards the camera he still wasn't one hundred percent positive, but in his gut he knew it to be true - and with that dawning realization, came another, even more unsettling conclusion…

"I know that woman," he spoke, breaking the heavy and serious silence, "in that video. I know who she is."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, finally wrenching his changeable gaze from the laptop to settle on the small Omega leaning against the opposite table. Mycroft closed the media player and went through the motions of removing the thumb drive. When it was done, he wordlessly closed the computer with a snap.

"I don't see how that's possible," Mycroft intoned, slipping the drive into a pocket on the inside of his jacket, "the participants of that study disappeared three years ago, along with Dr. Frankland and half his staff; the other half are either dead or professed to know nothing about the true aim of the experiment. This video is the only proof we have that it even existed." He settled his hands on the polished handle of his umbrella, the right over the left. "We've been unable to find any additional information, though not for want of trying. It appears someone…someone very powerful is keeping it secret, and they very much want it to stay that way."

"No, _listen to me!_" John fisted his hands, pulling his left up to his temple and pressing hard, needlessly so. His headache was growing worse by the minute and he wasn't sure he could stand the smell of the morgue much longer. His stomach turned, gurgling in his abdomen. He needed to leave and he needed to leave soon.

"I met her today, at my appointment. I'm certain of it. She's a bit older, yeah, but her hair and her face, they're the same. She told me her name was Irene Adler…said she was Formed through the same study we're investigating now. She's the one who accepted me and gave me the capsules. How can this be true?"

"It's not." Sherlock's smooth baritone practically filled the room. A wall of Alpha hormones invaded John's senses, making his vision sway and nausea roll over him in an all-consuming wave. He had to breathe from his mouth for a few moments (hoping he wasn't being too obvious), silently waiting for it to pass.

Both Alphas regarded the diminutive Omega with some concern. Sherlock stepped towards John, each movement well measured, his gaze bright and piercing. John recognized that look, even through the haze of headache and nausea; he knew what it was like to be mentally dissected by a Holmes.

"John," the taller brunet began, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, "what exactly are you not telling us?"

"I-I think I made a mistake," was all John could muster, voice small and tight, "I think…I think I've already been dosed with the drug."

Mycroft and Sherlock both shared a long (if not incredulous) look.

It was Mycroft himself who spoke first, his thin lips pursed in about as unhappy a grimace as the normally expressionless man could muster. "Explain please, Dr. Watson."

"I – when I was having my…physical, well, after I had my physical, there was a young woman who came in to take samples of my blood. She asked if I wanted the flu jab." John laughed without humour, passing his hand over his eyes before settling it back against the cool metal surface behind him, "I thought sure, why not? After all I've nowhere to go. We're a high risk population, the homeless, couldn't hurt, could it?"

Sherlock's face began to change, ever so slowly, moving from detached indifference to pure, impassioned anger. The sides of his mouth turned down, his back straightened, and he clasped both hands tightly behind his back.

Beside him, Mycroft only sniffed, but the hard twist of his mouth belied his concern.

"The video – it ah…mentioned they used attenuated flu virus as the carrier, right?" The Omega looked back and forth between the two men, mouth dry and head aching, "do you think they still do?"

Sherlock said nothing; he stood there in cold silence, his eyes far away and twitching, as if considering something.

"They could be," Mycroft proffered, though he seemed surprisingly unaffected by John's declaration, "although we cannot say for sure. Much of Dr. Frankland's notes and medical data were destroyed. If he is not behind this, then, someone else may be conducting this experiment on their own, most assuredly with information we lack."

"So if it is then…what? What should I expect then? Seizures? Tumours?" The blond's voice took on a high pitched quality, just this side of truly upset. "Jesus…what have I got myself into?" He murmured, more for himself than for the other two Alphas in the room.

"John, I insist you stay with me while this is sorted. You're more at risk. You're too much of a…" Sherlock paused before he could finish that thought, fingers twitching as he clasped them tightly.

"Too much of a what now?" John queried, smiling with no sense of joy behind the expression, "were you going to say liability?" Anger spiked his tone. He may have made a mistake, but he wasn't going to crawl and hide away to (possibly) seize and die in a corner.

John straightened, a hint of his military training shining through his small form, "Mycroft…I'd like to speak to Sherlock alone, if you don't mind."

With both eyebrows raised, Mycroft pivoted to regard his brother. Sherlock stood, immovable, with eyes only for Dr. Watson.

The older Alpha sighed and collected his laptop, stowing it away in his carrier. With a twirl of his umbrella, he moved towards the door. "If you wish, though please don't be too long. My brother and I have much to discuss, don't we Sherlock?" That last statement was loaded with…_something_. John didn't have the energy or presence of mind to try to puzzle it out now. He and Sherlock needed to talk, and it needed to happen sooner rather than later.

Sherlock didn't so much as flick an eyelash as his brother exited through the swinging door; he kept all of his (rather unnerving) attention on the Omega.

"I am going to ask you a question, Sherlock, and you're going to give a straight answer, yeah?" John prefaced, making it clear he didn't much want or care for Sherlock's usual mysterious and dissembling manner.

The apex Alpha sniffed, but didn't relax. He appeared to be waiting.

"Fine," John began when no response came from the younger man, "ever since I met you, my life has been…well, it's not been boring, I'll put it that way. And actually, all that is rather great except…I get the feeling you aren't being entirely truthful with me -"

"John, I –"

"I'm not done! You asked me to join this study, I did. You also keep asking me to move in with you, which, by the way, is ridiculous and completely inappropriate as I barely know anything about you. Now, I just found out I might have accidentally signed my own death certificate, so for once, Sherlock, I want simple answers from you and I want the truth."

The apex Alpha nodded briskly, lips blanching as he pressed them into a thin white line.

"What did you say to Marcus that night that he attacked me?"

Sherlock blinked for a moment, quickly looking down and to the side, "I…told him not to touch you ever again."

John inhaled, he'd thought as much, "is that all?"

A very pregnant pause, then, "I told him you didn't belong to him."

"Who do I belong to exactly?" John leaned forward, catching Sherlock's down-swept gaze in his own, forcing eye contact.

"I…" Sherlock's mouth worked silently, he seemed disinclined to truly answer the question.

"Alright then, how about this one? What the _hell_ happened this morning in your flat?"

The brunet winced, he _physically_ winced. "John, please, I –"

"No! No. I'm not letting you weasel your way out of this one," John practically growled, anger clouding his vision. He could feel the blood pounding behind his eyes, making his headache and nausea worse in turns, "you say that I don't belong to Marcus and then you accost me in your flat, scenting me like…like I'm your bloody _mate_, Sherlock! So…let me ask you again, _who do I belong to?_"

Finally, Sherlock's carefully controlled façade cracked. He raised his hands to the side of his head, fists clenched in his hair, face twisted in frustration and something else John couldn't quite recognize.

"_To me!_ Alright! I told him you belonged to me," he finally answered in a vicious whisper, "I don't know why I said it. I don't even think I meant it at the time. The man was _dangerous_ John! He may seem simple and harmless to you, but believe me, he knew what he was doing and you wouldn't have been able to stop him, no matter how hard you fought."

"You think you're so _strong_, John," Sherlock continued, beginning to pace, the previously perfect waves of his hair pulled and sticking out in errant puffs, "but there is no way you would have survived that attack unscathed; especially since you were already injured at the time. But you like that, don't you? You like being the martyr. You like playing strong but really you're just a beaten, broken down latent Omega looking for a thrill, isn't that right John?"

John stopped completely, all mental processes coming to an abrupt halt.

_What did he just say?_

As if that wasn't enough, Sherlock continued with his tirade, unable to view his words as anything but truthful…and uncaring that these words, even if they were the truth, could hurt just as much as a sniper bullet in enemy territory.

"Who else dives into a fight outnumbered? Who else volunteers for a study knowing there is a huge risk involved? Who else knowingly associates with an Alpha who is so unstable he has to be threatened not to touch you? Who else _chooses_ to be homeless?"

Sherlock's words dripped with contempt, eyes flashing with fury and dangerously strong emotion. John wanted to back away, but the metal table was already flush against his person.

When he again chose to spoke, his voice was small.

"Is that really how you see me?" John felt the weight of the world come crashing down on his shoulders. The love he felt for this beautiful, impossible man condensed in his chest, causing a lancing pain he had never felt before in his life; not for Mary, not for James, not for _anyone_.

"I only see things as they are, John. You and your _kind_ like to cloud your thoughts and minds with _feelings_ while I hold that behaviour in the lowest regard." He took one long step towards John, looming over him, his entire demeanour dripping with undisguised contempt.

"B-but I thought we were partners in this? I thought we were friends?"

"Ha!" Sherlock spun away, collecting and stacking his various slides into their holders, probably with a little more force than he should have, "don't fool yourself John Watson, I don't have _friends_."

And that was it. It had all become clear now.

Sherlock didn't care about John; he probably never did, he probably never would. John was just a tool, just…another pawn to be used and manipulated to get what he wanted. The Omega had once thought Sherlock different. He once thought the apex Alpha was unique in his own way, and not like the others.

But now he knew he was wrong, dead wrong. His heart thumped frantically in his chest, splintering and cracking with every forceful rush of blood though its chambers.

It was kind of funny; John never thought one could physically _feel_ their heart break. Guess he was wrong about that too.

Sherlock kept his back to the Omega, purposefully refusing to acknowledge the man was even still in the room. The tension was perceptible in his rigid lines of muscles in his back, and he inhaled in long, drawn out huffs.

"Right," John answered, voice thick and defeated, "wonder why."

The doors swung silently as the blond limped out of the morgue, out of the hospital, and into the cloudy (but strangely) bright London afternoon.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock forcefully slid each slide into their requisite plastic slots; some of them cracked, splintered, or broke apart altogether (he didn't seem to notice). His viridian eyes were vacuous and distant, his mouth viciously tight. What was he doing?

What was he doing?

_What had he done?_

Without a thought to the precious specimens, he gripped the slide container in one large, calloused hand, and launched it across the room with a snarl. Several slides escaped the confines of the slots in mid-air, only to fall, tinkling to the ground; the unfortunate others crashed against the tiled wall, exploding in a burst of shattered glass, plastic, and stained bits of human tissue. Sherlock watched the remnants settle on the ground with a twisted, vacant expression, then painfully gripped the sides of his head, desperately seeking respite from the racing thoughts thundering through his mind: the accusations, the guilt, the shame, the last look on John's face as he turned and bravely limped out of the morgue, even though Sherlock had been so unkind…so poisonous with his spiteful words.

None of this was John's fault.

"My, my, little brother, Miss Hooper will be ever so upset." Mycroft warned, his voice bouncing off the ceramic walls of the morgue. The Alpha stood near the entranceway, ever-present brolly by his side, and a stern look on his narrow face that caused Sherlock pause.

Mycroft had been meticulously editing a few important government missives from the comfort of his sedan, when he'd seen one John Watson hobble painfully out of the Hospital and make for the nearest tube station. The look on his thin, harried face was indescribable.

It caused the British Government some not inconsiderable concern.

With a flip of his hand, he booted up his laptop and clicked on the icon marked SB-M.

He watched as the circular loading icon swung round a few times, and then a black and white audio/video feed of the morgue filled the screen, skewed ever just so by the angle of the camera. He ran his finger along the touchpad, moving the slider bar backwards, rewinding the recording until he saw his own tall figure leave through the double doors. Then he allowed the feed to play.

He watched the Omega and the Alpha, watched them dance; he watched them crash, and he watched John burn.

He placed two fingers between his eyebrows and sighed inwardly (and if one was very observant, maybe even a bit sadly) and alerted his driver, he was going to need some extra time to speak with his idiot brother.

* * *

"Stay out of this Mycroft! How many _times_ do I have to tell you?" Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, practically pacing a groove into the chipped tiling of the large room. He shook his head, a spastic motion, as if hearing voices screaming at him from its synaptic depths.

"I told you not to get involved." The other Alpha inspected a standard plastic chair placed next to one of the tables, running a long finger across the seat with a raised eyebrow. Apparently, it passed muster, because he sat, umbrella resting at his side and one long leg neatly folded over the other.

"Involved? I'm not _involved_." Sherlock scoffed, causing a wrinkle to appear between his brows.

Mycroft sighed the exasperated sigh of the tired and overworked. "Then explain to me, brother mine, about that little display in your hallway just this morning. Is that what you call not getting involved?" He tilted his head to the side, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it from the apex himself.

"That – that was…John was – that was an unfortunate loss of control of which I…have no explanation for. It won't happen again." The brunet inhaled shakily, resetting the curls of his hair and smoothing the lapels of his bespoke blazer.

"Really; is that what that was?"

"Oh why do you even _care _Mycroft? Don't you have wars to start, ambassadors to schmooze, cake to eat? Leave me…leave John, _alone_."

"Sherlock, my intention is not to reprimand you for your…rather unfortunate behaviour. I am here to tell you to fix this. John is our most important operative in this endeavour, and now he is in danger."

Sherlock glowered at his brother, his gaze venomous. This wasn't news to him of course, but hearing Mycroft put it into words somehow made it so much more _real_.

"John Watson is in danger and we are the only ones who can help him. So whatever it is your tiny little emotionally underdeveloped brain has itself worked up about, _fix it_. Fix it _now_. Personally, I don't have the patience for your ill-timed emotional crisis and childish displays," he stood, gripping the bottom of his waistcoat and straightening his suit, "so get yourself together, forego all this _drama, _and fix it." He let his tongue linger on the back of his teeth a moment too long, adding an extra emphasis on the aspirant 't'.

Sherlock regarded his brother with a strange new kind of...wariness. He leant his head back slightly, narrowing his eyes, the sides of his mouth drooping down in a moue of petulant suspicion.

He made to speak, no doubt to spout a scathing reply to his brother's unprovoked little speech, when Mycroft's mobile chimed in his trouser pocket. With a raised right hand (held up specifically to prevent Sherlock from talking), he pulled the mobile out with his left and glanced at the screen.

"I have to take this. I ask you, Sherlock, for your own sanity and mine, fix it." He grasped his umbrella and placed the mobile to his ear, turning away and leaving the morgue with the nonchalance of a practiced politician, icy to the core.

Sherlock was left there, alone, with only his warring guilt and emotions for company.

* * *

"Mycroft?" John questioned, one hand plugging up his opposite ear (it was rather noisy in the Underground), unsure if he'd receive a decent signal whilst waiting for the next train car.

"Yes, Dr. Watson, what can I do for you?" Mycroft's smooth tones slid down the line, almost comforting the still shaken Omega.

"I…I just wanted to tell you that, well, Sherlock and I –" his throat closed involuntarily, thickening with emotion and the fresh, searing pain of rejection, "well we've had a disagreement. I – I don't think I can work with him anymore but, I still want to help. I mean, that is, I will continue with the original plan with you…but I don't – I won't work with Sherlock anymore."

It hurt John to even say the words. All of this, all of their planning and work had just spectacularly imploded. The blond could still feel the remnants of adrenaline and the almost crippling emotional pain from his encounter with Sherlock only 15 minutes ago. He tried not to think about the brunet's cruel words…just as he tried not to think about his own mortality, ticking down like an overlarge clock face in his mind's eye (too loud, and entirely too fast).

"I see." Mycroft replied, the man had thought as much. Although considering the conversation he had just had with his impetuous brother, he'd hoped Dr. Watson's decision would change in the near future, "If that is how you feel, then it will be so. You may contact me on this line at any time, it is secure."

When he spoke again, John sounded relieved beyond all measure. "Thank you. I have another appointment for the study in two days, I'll ring you then."

"As you wish," Mycroft paused, motioning to his driver to start the car, "be well, John."

"Yeah," the Omega laughed with little humour, Mycroft's words bringing the pounding of his head once more into in painful focus, "I'll try, I suppose. Goodbye Mycroft."

John ended the call and opened his mobile settings with a delicate dip of his finger, quickly searching through his contacts (of which there were a pitiful few). He really was getting quite good at navigating his iPhone now. It helped that a few of his fellow homeless were younger and wee bit more adept at smartphones (Brandy was a veritable electronic genius, regardless of how much she denied it), having been raised with the technology since birth, it seemed.

He hovered momentarily over one contact in particular, deliberating, until the oncoming rumble of the tracks and whoosh of stale, humid air heralded the arrival of the train.

* * *

Sherlock kneeled, slowly gathering glittering remnants of slides, piece by delicately jagged piece, and placing them in the sharps container he'd dragged all the way from across the cavernous room.

The motions were automatic, but his brain was an erratic, tumultuous whir of activity. He replayed the events of the past hour with painful clarity, wondering what had prompted him to be so hateful and abhorrent to the one person in his life that neither needed nor deserved such treatment.

John was…

John was a survivor. John was steadfast and fearless. The Omega had been dealt a tough hand at birth, and yet managed to soldier on, quite literally. He'd been mistreated, emotionally and physically, put down, ignored, dismissed and yet still he persevered.

Sherlock felt a cold wash of shame spill across his skin, settling uncomfortably upon his nerves. He felt…he felt, unstable. Inside somewhere there was a…a pain he couldn't describe. It centred in his chest, growing outwards, slowly consuming and subsuming him - until the slight high-pitched chinkle of glass against enamelled tile caught his attention, tearing him away from his introspection.

He looked downwards blankly, then realised with a start that he'd unknowingly managed to cut himself on a particularly fine shard of glass (fortunately an unused slide), and dazedly watched a dewy drop of crimson grow on the top of his trembling thumb.

Wait – just, wait…

He realized his hand – his _hand _– was _shaking_.

Look at him – he was _afraid._

He inhaled sharply, raising his hand parallel to the floor, watching it tremble. He watched as the fat droplet of blood grew too heavy and fell, branding the floor with a splash of colour amongst a sea of beige and dirty grout. Absently, he spread his thumb through the droplet, smearing the blood in an arc, watching as the line thinned and faded to a fetching pinkish stain towards the end.

Pink.

He recalled the last time he'd seen that particular shade of pink, aglow across the flesh of a man he'd just actively repelled away from him. He closed his eyes and thought of John, steam warmed and still damp from the shower that morning, smelling of honey, salty caramel like the sea, and cloves. Spicy, snippets of scents so tantalizingly amorphous, they were there one moment and gone the next.

He would have stood in that hallway forever; he would have gripped John's smaller shoulders with each large hand and _licked_ the man from collarbone to hairline, marking him, grinding his hips against the Omega's lower belly until there was no question as to his insistent and overwhelming intent.

He would have, had they not been so egregiously interrupted.

Sherlock was unused to feeling so emotionally bereft, he wasn't used to _wanting_. All his life he'd been able to manipulate others, finagle his way into secretive places; he could deduce peoples' desires as easily as he could tie his shoes, so why…for God's sakes _why_, did this man effect him so?

John. He was the only person Sherlock had ever felt for, the only one who'd stared at him with true awe and appreciation that wasn't tainted by Sherlock's own enticing mix of pheromones; and he was in danger, in danger of possibly _dying_…and it was Sherlock's fault. It was _all_ Sherlock's fault.

Good God, what had he _done?_

The apex Alpha stood swiftly, crossing the room in a daze and grabbing the nearest tissue to put pressure against the painless puncture wound on his thumb. With his left hand he pulled out his mobile. It was uncomfortable and graceless, using his left hand for anything was highly awkward, but he hadn't a moment to lose. He texted quickly with his uninjured thumb, realizing in a heartbeat something he should have realized weeks ago. John was the only one that mattered now, and Sherlock would do anything not to lose him.

He just hoped he wasn't already too late.

**John, I need to speak with you – SH**

Five minutes, no response.

**This is important, please! – SH**

Ten minutes, no response.

**Please, please respond. I need to talk to you. – SH**

No response.

* * *

John only went back to the bungalow for an hour at most. It didn't seem near as inviting and cosy as before, the lilac wallpaper rather less than soothing, the dim interior suffocating rather than reassuring. John's life had been turned upside down, and since he didn't really know what would happen during the next few days, this felt suspiciously like a goodbye. Regardless, he wanted to make this as quick and painless as possible.

This location was familiar to Sherlock, and even though he had blocked the Alpha from his mobile (thereby preventing the most convenient means of communication), he didn't want to take the risk of running into the detective here. He knocked on Julia and Brandy's door lightly, not entirely sure if they were in or not. He was greeted by Brandy's bright face and ushered inside with an indulgent smile.

He took one good look at both women and sighed, he didn't really want to do this. He pulled a neatly folded wad of pound notes from his back pocket (courtesy of his pension) and handed it to Julia. She accepted this without a word, as it was a relatively common transaction between the two. John was certain Julia was squirreling most of it away for the baby. For Brandy, he pulled out a taupe coloured business card from his wallet; it was thick, with a respectable linen finish. He passed it to the heavily pregnant Omega.

"What is this?" The ginger woman asked, flipping the card over once, and then back again, "who is Mike Stamford?"

"A doctor friend of mine…well he was once, we went to Uni together. He's at St. Bart's now and – well, I have to go away for a few days, and if anything happens, I want you to go to him. You can trust him Brandy, he's a good man, and he won't report you to your husband." This was Brandy's greatest fear, and what had ultimately led her to seek a life of homelessness, even while pregnant.

"He's not her husband!" Julia's eyes flashed, before she swallowed heavily and looked down at the ground apologetically, "I'm sorry I – we don't even like to think about him."

Brandy brushed a soft hand against Julia's cheek, lifting her face gently and meeting her eyes. There was so much love in her gaze, so much promise and life; John had to look away. He felt like an intruder in a singularly private moment between the two women. He once dared hope he would find a mate of his own one day, someone who really knew him and loved him for who he was, latent and otherwise. He'd thought that maybe, with Sherlock, well…no use in thinking about that now.

The long moment passed.

"So…what do you mean 'go away'?" Julia enquired, stepping closer to John, her face flush with worry, "you promised you'd see us through this. Brandy's due date is only two weeks away, are you still going to deliver our baby?"

John's stomach rolled, and not with hunger. His nausea had yet to lessen and his headache was still a constant pounding behind his eyes. The pain was beginning to crawl down into his neck muscles, tightening along his shoulder and making his joints pulse in a dull, aching throb.

"Yes – yes, I hope to, but – I, I'm sorry, to the both of you. This really isn't by choice."

"Well," Julia threw up her hands, "if it's not your choice, you don't have to do it, simple as that!"

"Julia!" Brandy frowned, placing a gentling hand on the Beta woman's arm. She looked back to John with fear in her eyes, and a touch of sadness, "are you even going to tell us where you're going?"

John sighed, rubbing a hand over his left temple, "Not sure yet. I just, need some time alone. I'll be back in a few days, yeah, hopefully. Tell Marcus and Sarah for me, would you?"

"I'll tell Sarah, Marcus just…weirds me out." Julia frowned, placing a warm hand over Brandy's smaller one and squeezing it gently. Brandy only sighed, making a point not to roll her eyes.

"We'll let them know. Are – are you in some kind of trouble? This is all so…so sudden, it's not like you. Why can't you tell us where you're going?"

"I just…have a bit of soul searching to do is all. Please, don't waste your time worrying about me. I'll see you in a few days, okay?"

Both women nodded, though they seemed reluctant to do so. Brandy levelled Julia with a concerned stare that spoke volumes, and placed the business card in the back pocket of her scruffy jeans. John gave them both light, tender kisses on their cheeks before he quit their room, wondering, truly, if he would ever see them again, or if he had just made a complete liar out of himself.

He limped his way slowly down the hallway, peering inside the darkened space of Sarah's room. It was empty, with only a flattened and worn, downy bedroll and few other accoutrements she had acquired over her time living it rough. For her, he only left a note, wishing her well and leaving the most important bits of financial information (along with his card) that he didn't trust with anyone else. Should he not come back, he wanted to her have access to his pension for as long as he was away; or until he was declared missing, or-or worse.

The thought gave him little comfort, and he placed the note on top of her bedroll, folded in half with her name hastily scribbled on top and the card tucked neatly inside.

He entered his own living space then; it too was empty except for his own things, and the faint smell of Marcus lingering in the air (a kind of neutral, musky scent). He gathered what little he had with well-practiced ease, rolling it all into a bundle and then filling up his duffel bag neatly, putting everything in its place. He didn't think too much about all of this, the blond just went through the motions by rote, refusing to acknowledge the fact that his time here was probably coming to an end. His time as the Good Doctor could be over, and for what…his inability to curtail his addiction to danger? The chance to spend time with the most beautiful man he had ever set eyes on?

Both, probably.

He shrugged the duffel over his right shoulder, grimacing in pain. At this point, his whole body hurt.

He well-remembered the words from the video Mycroft had shown them in the morgue, how the doctor had spoken of flu-like symptoms: nausea, headache, etc. It seemed the virus, the Package, or what have you, was truly taking its course; he just wasn't sure exactly where this course would lead. And truly, this left him quite terrified.

He trudged down the stairs with a heavy head, one on the railing, and the other clutching the tightly knitted nylon strap of his bag. He counted the stairs one by one, keeping focus on the here and now, instead of lingering uselessly on what might have been.

"John?"

The Omega looked up as he reached the last stair, only to find the large figure of Marcus coming through the front door, face awash with joy and smears of, chocolate?

John couldn't help but crack a smile, tremulous though it was, "Been into the Lion bars again, have you?"

"No!" The Alpha answered a little too quickly, swiping his meaty forearm against his face much like a four year old wipes off a milk moustache, "maybe, John." He looked abashed for a moment, before speaking again, a frown slowly leeching the joy from his face.

"You are leaving?" Challenged though Marcus was, he could put two and two together.

"I-I didn't think you'd be here, I wanted to tell you - it's just for a little while. I'm sorry."

"I will go with you." Marcus stated, crossing one chocolate smeared arm over the next, both resting atop his barrelled chest with finality.

"No, not this time…"

"I go with _you_." The man repeated; his face a hardened mask of purpose.

"Marcus-"

"John is my friend, I'll stay with John." He took one step towards the smaller Omega and then paused, speaking quietly, but with purpose, "I know now, John is _only_ my friend, but Marcus will protect you."

John half-smiled and released a quiet little huff of laughter. He quite liked Marcus' odd little way of speaking, sometimes in the third person, sometimes a jumble of first and third. When John first met him, dirtied, confused, and alone under the bridge, he realized that to him, it was part of his charm. It made the large man appear so desperately innocent (which couldn't be further from the truth). The blond had taken him under his wing, helped fix him up, and the man had been devoted ever since.

It became clear that Marcus had done a bit of thinking after their last encounter, and all in all it was a bit surprising to John for the man to show such insight. He took the Alpha's words for what they were, a sort of apology for his behaviour for the past few weeks, and nodded his head. In the end, he decided, he could do with some company, and the added protection certainly wouldn't go amiss.

"Yes, alright, go get your things." He nodded towards the stairs, while Marcus smiled his biggest gapped tooth smile and bounded up to the second story.

John waited by the door, anxiously peering out of the grimy window. He hoped against hope that he wouldn't be caught here, or see a tall, impossibly gorgeous Alpha turn round the corner towards the bungalow, the wind whipping his woollen coat behind his back.

* * *

It was a miserable two days, before the Omega's next requisite appointment with the study. John, wracked with fever and night sweats, barely ate and only managed a minimal amount of fluids. He sent Marcus to the chemist with what little money they had, prompting him to buy paracetamol and whatever else the chemist recommended for Flu. When the man returned, John gratefully dry swallowed a few pills, eager for relief, and the chance to feel like a human being, if only just.

They kept on the move, neither of them staying in one place for very long. John didn't want to risk being found by Sherlock, and he was determined to continue on with the plan. Every so often he would text his whereabouts to Mycroft, which would only result in a terse –

**Message received - MH**

They slept on benches and behind bins, both of them becoming quite filthy in the process. This necessitated a trip or two to the Day Centre for a wash and change into clean clothing. He didn't have the convenience and privacy of 221B anymore, so things slowly began to go back to the way they were before he ever even set eyes on Sherlock Holmes.

On the day of his appointment he felt like death warmed over, and though he tried to appear as healthy (though thin) as possible, he couldn't hide the sallowness in his cheeks and red, glassy eyes.

He left Marcus near the Vauxhall Arches, as they had decided to stop there for the day. He rang Mycroft quickly, forcing a stilted and uncomfortable conversation with the posh man before signing off and beginning his long walk to the Highlands Centre, marching forward and onwards, ever the good soldier.


	19. Chapter 19

The reflection of the sun off the damp London pavement made John feel slightly dizzy. He was aware, mostly in the back of his mind, that his hip had begun to hurt once more, sending dull waves of pain all the way down his leg and back up again. Mostly he just tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other while keeping his head down as he made his way to the Highlands Centre.

He'd managed to dry swallow yet another two paracetamol (he _really_ needed to keep track of his daily amount); hoping against hope that it would at least keep his symptoms controlled enough to make it through the appointment without too many questions. He wasn't sure what was going to happen today (if anything), and while he had support in the way of Mycroft's ubiquitous governmental omnipotence, it still felt suspiciously like he was walking to his own doom.

When the shining modern façade of the Highlands Centre came into view, a twist of nausea swept through John's gut, making him realise he needed to either keep his gaze down on the street, or completely level. There would be no quick movements, no running, or jerky turns of the head for the Omega today. If he didn't know any better he would say he was hungover, what with the pounding at his temples accompanying the nausea. He supposed he should have tried to eat more of the lunch Marcus had brought to them, but really, pork lo mein just didn't carry the same delicious overtones and temptation it normally did.

He wiped his sleeve across his head, aware that he was sweating, though the bleak December air chilled his skin. He must look a mess, but he found he didn't really care. This wasn't the first time he was forced to interact with the public while looking ragged and destitute, or worse.

Regardless of what they wanted to do in this appointment, he would make it short. They could draw blood, sure, but then he was leaving. He might beg off, saying he'd had a reaction to the flu shot (not uncommon, or completely untrue), and the question of whether or not they believed him was entirely moot at this point.

The only thing he wished for, quite fervently, is that it didn't resort to violence, if it even got that far; if it did…then he was fucked, completely and utterly _fucked_. Army training or no, he was not in a condition to fight off any anyone, whether they be a burly Army bloke or a six year old with a nasty temper and fists full of Lego blocks.

"John?"

The Omega stopped short, the abrupt motion playing havoc both with his head and tortured hip. That voice, deep and sinfully luscious, he recognized immediately, but…he _really_ didn't need this right now. His stiff-backed reserve was wearing thin, and truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure if he had the strength of will to completely resist the apex Alpha.

_God_, his country for some peace - his life for a good night's rest and one damn day away from the Holmes'.

Though he had stopped his stilted walk, he continued to stare down at the ground, steeling himself against his emotions. Memories of the last time he spoke to Sherlock Holmes floated unbidden to the front of his mind, and he was reminded, again, as to why he chose to avoid the man for the past few days.

Slowly, he turned, and stifled a humourless laugh as a pair of glossy black Magnanni's came into view. Sherlock Holmes _would_ be the only fool to wear eight hundred pound shoes while talking to a homeless man; the irony was not lost on the former soldier.

"I'll be late for my appointment. Excuse me." He simply could not do this right now, and he didn't raise his eyes to meet the taller man's gaze.

"John, _please_."

Nope. He didn't care how pathetic the Alpha sounded; he wasn't going to give in. This man was an exercise in emotional indifference and heartbreak, and John wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. He began to limp towards the building again, pushing ahead painfully and away from the brunet, hoping he'd get the picture and leave him _alone_.

"_John_."

A warm, strong hand on his arm halted his steps.

John had had enough. He swung round, advancing on the brunet with righteous anger, every word clipped and stinging. He pulled his arm away from Sherlock with a little too much force than was probably necessary, but again, he didn't care. His left hand flexed and clenched unconsciously at his side, though the Omega hardly noticed.

"_What?_ _What_, Sherlock? What could you _possibly_ need from me now? You need to humiliate someone else today, is that it? Do you need an easy target? Someone who won't fight back?" John refused to make eye contact - he couldn't. He only kept those outrageously expensive leather shoes in sight, spilling his rage onto their absurdly well-polished tips and hoping it'd sink through the leather and give Sherlock some kind of rare, incurable (but incredibly painful) toe fungus.

"John, I didn't mean –"

"You know what? _Save it_. There's a reason I've been avoiding you. Just…leave me alone." His vision swam for a moment, tilting the world at odd angles. He rubbed a dirty hand down his face, aware that he while he certainly _felt_ dreadful, he must also _look_ positively dreadful as well.

"Please, will you just _listen to me?_" A note of desperation clung to that last plea, and John wasn't sure if Sherlock was just a consummate actor, or if he was letting actual human emotions taint his plea. Either way, he was prepared to let the man _squirm_.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, flashing John a look of unsteadiness not often seen on his handsome face. The people milling about the concrete courtyard of the Centre began to take notice of the two, probably wondering what on Earth these two men could possibly be arguing about (and why they couldn't take it somewhere _else?_). Most actually wondered who the strikingly handsome man was, and why he was talking to someone who was so obviously beneath him.

"I…that is - you...John...," it was comical, really, the strange stop and start cadence to his reply. If the Omega didn't know better, he would say Sherlock was at a loss for words (improbable), or the unfortunate recipient of some kind of new speech impediment (again, highly unlikely).

The smaller man pulled his iPhone out of his pocket, swiping across its glassy surface to check the time. The screen shone, forming squarish bubbles on the generic mobile background, and John realized he hadn't had a chance to charge the thing the entire time he was avoiding Sherlock. He sighed inwardly, it didn't matter if the battery was only at 28%, he didn't expect to have it for much longer anyway. With a quick glance to the top middle of the screen, he noted the time; if he wasn't careful, he really _would_ be late. He moved to stash the mobile back into his dirty jeans when a large, pale hand circled around his wrist. The grip was surprisingly warm and gentle.

"Your mobile - you haven't been answering my texts." It wasn't a question, just a simple statement of fact; yet the man looked at John with eyes clouded over in pain and uncertainty.

"Why should I? You made it perfectly clear where I stood last time we talked. What was the point?" John jerked his arm back, flexing his hands into fists at his side. The searing pain in his head reminded him that he needed to keep this as brief (and painless) as possible.

John had purposefully kept his mobile powered off for the majority of the time he was hiding behind skips and making a bed out of mounds of gravel and dirt (this was after he'd figured out how to block Sherlock from calling or texting). Mycroft was the only one he kept in touch with now, and thankfully, he never mentioned Sherlock. Not that the Omega would have been able to tell him anything anyway, the apex Alpha was as much of a stranger to him now as he'd ever been.

Unfortunately, strangers weren't supposed to haunt your dreams, or break down the carefully constructed brick and mortar walls of your heart. The inside of John's chest felt raw and delicately fragile, like his heart had been replaced with nothing more than a replica made of wax paper and string - easily cut and easily torn.

Sherlock said nothing for a good long moment, then placed both hands in his hair in a gesture of unusual child-like frustration. He groaned, moving the gloved fingers of his hand back and forth, until nothing of his previous hair style survived but bits of curls stuck out at perpendicular angles to his ears. He paced while he did this, visibly agitated, his long coat flapping about his calves, until with a shout – he stopped.

He stopped and fixed John with a piercing glare, his eyes like ice chips glittering in a face equally as unfathomable.

"Oh…_Oh!_ You want an apology." He declared, bringing his hands down to his sides, face twisting in an absurd Eureka-like revelation that was both laughable and heartrendingly brittle.

John snorted into the chilled afternoon air, finally replacing the mobile in his pocket.

"Do you really expect me to believe the great Sherlock Holmes is just going to stand there and –"

"I'm sorry."

The confession ripped through the smaller blond. He had never heard Sherlock apologize for anything – he honestly didn't think the man was capable. Yet here he was, standing right in front John, offering an apology in earnest, his face open and far more vulnerable than John had ever seen.

"You…sorry? Sorry_ what?_" The Omega blubbered, thinking he _had_ to have misheard. John had done a fair job of trying to forget this man over the last couple days, and having the Alpha practically thrust himself upon him whilst speaking words of atonement was a little more than he could bear. His stomach twisted violently.

It was quite possible that John might kiss him…or he might sick up, it was about a 50/50 chance at this point.

"I'm sorry, John. I'll say it as many times as you like, in as many ways as you like. I'm…sorry for everything, for all of this. For so much…"

The blond stared at him wordlessly, eyes shining fever-bright.

"I didn't realize it before. I – didn't know…how this was done, how these things were done, I mean…I…," Sherlock took a step forward, crowding John's space, both hands cradled in leather lifted to rest at each of John's biceps, "I'm sorry it took me so long to realise."

John didn't speak for several heartbeats.

"And what _exactly_ did you realise?"

Sherlock squeezed the sides of his arms, running his thumbs in small circles over the appendages in an obvious gesture of possession and, strangely enough, comfort. One corner of his mouth lifted, the ghost of a smile playing upon his full lips. A wave of pheromones curled around the Omega, tickling his nose with a promise of safety and love, if John would be so willing.

"I…I'm not sure there are words…"

John gazed upwards at the man as if spellbound. He took in the taller man's visage, every errant curl, every gleam of his mercurial eyes, saving each and every visual memory like a Polaroid one could easily place in their back pocket for safekeeping. He did this because he didn't want to lose this moment, although he knew, even as he wished desperately for the opposite, that it could not last.

He cleared his throat, and in doing so, cleared his mind from the fog of pheromones and emotions that had muscled their way to the fore. While this apology was lovely, and appreciated, and (dare he say it) accepted, it didn't change much in the end.

"Th-thank you, Sherlock, erm…I appreciate it. I really do," the blond took a step back, dislodging himself from the Alpha's warm (almost) embrace, "it's a nice thought, really…but, um, well I have to go now."

He flushed fiercely, dropping his chin down to his chest to gaze at the cracks in the pavement. Anything to keep from meeting the eyes of the man who had successfully torn his world apart solely by uttering one simple phrase.

"What if I said I didn't want you to go?" Sherlock's voice reached a timbre so deep and sumptuous, it was all John could do to not throw himself bodily against the man.

He managed to keep it together, taking another few backwards steps towards the hulking glass entranceway of the business centre.

"Doesn't matter, I'm in it all the way now, yeah? Have to see this through…I made a promise, after all," the Omega jammed his tightly clenched fists into the pockets of his sullied coat, steeling his reserve once more, "besides I…I don't know what's wrong with me or what will happen. I'm hoping they have the answers, otherwise…" John looked away at that, managing a noncommittal shrug. Although they both knew it was an act.

"If that's what you feel you have to do but…please be careful, John." There was no mistaking the care and worry in his tone. "Maybe…I can come in with you?"

John shook his head as forcefully as the pain at his temples would allow.

"No. I don't want you on their radar. It'll look – well, it'll look odd. I'm supposed to be homeless remember? I'm not supposed to have posh friends, let alone…," he shrugged, looking Sherlock up and down with meaning, "let alone someone like _you_, an apex Alpha, hanging around. I will be careful, of course."

The assurance meant nothing; both men knew inevitability was the victor here. Whatever was to happen, there was little they could do to stop it now.

"Can I see you tonight? At the bungalow? Is…is that alright?"

John held his tongue for a few moments, and weighed his options. What _exactly_ was happening here? His pain addled brain made everything more difficult to understand and analyse. Sherlock had apologized, true, and didn't want him to go. But…what did that really _mean?_

Did this mean he cared for him? Is that what all this was about? Or was he just apologizing to his friend in the same way one stranger apologizes to another when they accidentally bump shoulders in the street? John exhaled slowly for a good long minute, the jumble of his emotions once again playing havoc with his physical well-being. This was all too much to take in right now. He didn't want to ruin this, but he also didn't want to over-analyse what had just happened. They would have to have another talk, tonight, at the bungalow.

"Yes, alright, that's fine Sherlock. Come by around seven if you want, it'll just be the few of us there anyway," this way, maybe, they could have a proper talk and figure all this out.

John felt, quite strongly, that they were on the precipice of something - something extremely important that could change life for the both of them, maybe (oh god, hopefully) for the better.

Sherlock continued to watch John with large, softly shining eyes, even as the man turned and limped through the automatic glass doors and into the Centre.

**LINE BREAK**

John stepped through the doors, relishing the warm gust of air that caressed his face as he did so. It was a right bit more comforting that he really thought it should be, considering he wasn't entirely sure he would even be leaving this building alive.

_Well that's a rather dark thought_.

John placed a palm on his forehead, closing his eyes tightly and breathing in to calm his nerves and his stomach. The paracetamol had finally kicked in, and the overwhelming aches and pain he'd lived with the past few days were subsiding, but only just. He caught a brief flash of his own reflection as he hobbled his way to the lift bay, and he had to admit it, good god he looked _terrible_.

His clothes hung unflatteringly on his thin frame, both highlighting and concealing his lack of regular meals. Dark rings settled in under his eyes, which glittered with fever. His hair, while still short, stuck to his skull in sweaty clumps, and his beard was so far past unkempt as to be outright laughable. He was surprised he wasn't stopped by security, if only for the fact that he looked like hell. Honestly, the only thing that didn't scream 'homeless,' was the moderately dirt-free clothing and his lack of offensive odour (courtesy of the Day Centre, once again).

He chewed on these thoughts as he made his way to the eighth floor, following the same path he took only a couple days ago. In actuality, it all felt much longer than that; but he knew life tended to feel that way when one lived on the streets, oftentimes arduously slow and painful.

Jeremy was behind the desk as John entered the makeshift waiting room; though the young man appeared stiff and quite ill-at-ease. He greeted John with a harried smile and told him to wait just a few moments. The fluorescent lights inside the room were making John's head ache even more than he previously thought possible. He reminded himself once again that he had to make this quick.

"Look, Jeremy…I'm uh, not really feeling well –"

A sudden crash and a fierce, angry wail thundered out from behind the door to the hallway. John was shocked into stillness, and Jeremy looked immediately chagrined and so embarrassed that John instantly felt sorry for the young man.

"I'm sorry, there's a…been an incident. I just got off the phone with security, they should be up any moment," the younger man nervously ruffled through a small pile of forms on his messy desk, finally holding up one in particular and eyeing it quickly, "oh yes, Mr. Watson! Of course, it'll just be a minute. Trudi will be out in a moment for a sample of your blood, but I'm afraid Doctors Wilkes and Adler are otherwise…occupied, today."

Another, more subdued, series of thumps rattled from behind the door. Who the hell did they have behind there anyway? The Incredible Hulk?

"Are you sure everything's alright?" John asked with genuine concern, "should you phone the police?"

"Oh no, no…it's alright. Just um, an unfortunate…"he stopped there, probably thinking better about what he was going to say, "well, never mind. Just follow me."

He grasped John's file to his chest, ushering his fellow Omega through the door and immediately into a darkened room on the right. John only had a second to glance down the white hallway, trying to catch a glimpse of who (or what) was making all that noise, but all he saw was a half-open door and quick grey shadows dancing across the opposite wall.

Turning his attention back to Jeremy, John suddenly realised how cold it was inside this new room. Well, colder than the lobby anyway and, when Jeremy turned on the lights, filled with rows upon rows of painted metal filing cabinets. There were unmatched chairs placed around a small folding lino table in the centre, and John raised both his eyebrows, bemused.

"I know, this is terrible, I do apologize. Normally this room is locked and only used for breaks and file storage but, well…with the trouble we've had today…"he sighed, putting John's file on the old, scratched table with a _plop_, "Trudi will be in here any moment now. Please forgive us this bit of um, well…I'm sorry anyway. Just sit tight."

Jeremy exited quickly, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Well.

This was _patently_ bizarre.

John looked around the room, nonplussed. The table in the centre (probably 30 years old), was passably clean, except for one green glass ashtray that housed more than a few cigarette butts (which was amusing because smoking indoors was banned ages ago).

The blond didn't quite fancy sitting in one of the metal and vinyl chairs, as none of them looked particularly comfortable, but he didn't really have any other choice. With a grimace, he sat down slowly, not particularly liking the puff of air that huffed out from beneath his bum as he flattened out the plastic cushion. _So very flattering_, he thought with mild amusement.

He could hear muffled voices emanating from down the hall, even through the thick white door – it seemed the dear Doctors were still having a bit of trouble. With curiosity piqued, he stood back up from the chair, running his hands absently over his thighs. The Omega stepped quietly towards the door, an outstretched hand in front of him, trying to be as silent as possible. The room itself didn't seem to be frequented very often, but he couldn't be too careful.

As soon as his hand made contact with the cool metal doorknob, he gave it a forceful turn. It didn't get him very far, however, as he soon realized the door was locked.

He frowned heavily, a set of fine wrinkles appearing above his eyebrows. He certainly didn't remember Jeremy locking the door. He thought he would have least heard a louder clicking noise, or the turn of tumblers, perhaps a key sliding in the keyhole – but, no, he didn't remember hearing anything of that sort. His frown stayed, fixed onto his face as though settling in for the long winter.

He backed away from the door, a sharp spear of unease and panic making a subtle live current buzz throughout the nerves of his body. What the hell was he supposed to do now? John was a doctor and a military man, he didn't have the expertise to break out of this room. Even if he did, he _certainly_ didn't have the tools.

"No," he exhaled, speaking softly to no one in particular, "guess I'll have to wait it out."

He would not be a happy patient when Trudi arrived, that is,_ if_ she arrived at all.

The blond forced himself to relax, unconsciously swiping his tongue to wet his lower lip. After the initial surprise of finding out he was quite trapped in this room, he rolled his head on his slim shoulders and willed himself to relax. This could all be…just some big mistake. Jeremy mentioned this room was usually locked, maybe it locked automatically…from the outside?

He laughed at himself, though the sound carried no real humour, that was a ridiculous thought.

Quickly realizing he needed something to pass the time, as he had no idea how long he was going to be stuck in this room, he glanced around, paying a little bit more attention than before. Nothing seemed to jump right out at him; it all just appeared to be a bit of storage, what with the sheer number of filing cabinets – not to mention the ad hoc shelving pushed up against the far east wall.

He walked towards the closest cabinet, noting the lack of padlock (or any locking device for that matter) as he ran his hands down its cold surface. They were the colour of his mum's pea soup, quite unsightly actually, and reminded his of his own duffle bag he'd left with Marcus. He gripped the silvered handle and pulled, grateful that the drawer opened noiselessly on its tracks.

It was full of hanging files, each one marked on top with a date scrawled on a small rectangular piece of paper hastily shoved inside a tiny plastic label holder. There were dozens in this one drawer alone, and John had no idea what they meant, if they were important, or useful at all to the case.

It didn't matter – John shot into action. He quickly pulled out his mobile and began taking picture after picture, the flash illuminating the room in uneven bursts of light.

He had no idea how much time he had, but any information would be good information, or so he hoped.

The sharp _click_ of his iPhone kept him company during the long wait for Trudi and her penchant for bloodletting.

**LINE BREAK**

Irene Adler finally sat down at her desk, taking immense comfort in its exquisitely crafted surface and feeling the smooth polished grain run satiny underneath her palms. She had been a sensualist before her Formation, but afterwards, even more so. No one could quite take pleasure in the physical world like she could.

It had been a long and ridiculously burdensome day. The appearance of Dr. Frankland, like a spectre from the past, proved to be a little bit more than she was prepared for. The man was furious, insanely so – and it had taken all of her considerable charms to calm him down. He had never been a particularly quarrelsome Beta, but the years in self-induced exile had certainly changed him.

She lifted her head towards the door, a sharp knock interrupting her mental run through of the day.

"Enter."

Sebastian slinked inside, looking nearly as exhausted as she felt, and clutching a single piece of paper in his left hand.

"Yes? What is it Sebastian?" The elegant Omega clicked on her desk lamp, basking in its warm glow, "if you don't mind, I'd like to take some time to…regroup, after today."

"I know Irene, it's just that – well, I…you need to see this."

She tensed her perfectly lined lips, coloured blood red, and noticed Sebastian was trembling. The paper in his hand shook, ever so slightly, until he gently pressed it down on the desk in front of her.

"It's finally happened," he whispered with ill-contained excitement, "there can be no mistaking the genetic markers."

The woman lifted a finely pencilled eyebrow dubiously, in all their subjects, they had yet to find an actual carrier – and yet…she flattened the paper against the desk with both hands, rereading the text with a burgeoning smile.

"Subject John Watson, I remember you. This _is_ a surprise," she rested one long finger against her bottom lip, tapping a crimson nail against the edge of her teeth, "well, I think it's time."

She smiled at the man at her side, catching his eyes, as equally excited now as he was when he entered the room.

"Don't you?"


	20. Chapter 20

John stumbled inside, letting his sweaty palm linger on the peeling metal handle of the front door. The bungalow was blessedly silent, the only noise coming from the early evening wind as it slipped through the second storey eaves. He knew, vaguely in the back of his mind, that Marcus could be home, as well as some of the girls. Honestly, he hoped they wouldn't bother him too much; he had his heart set on a quick kip before Sherlock arrived - just a little mental preparation and reinforcement before they had 'the talk.'

His symptoms had become noticeably worse on his trip home on the tube. The hostile stares and sniffs of disdain from the other passengers on the car had begun to grate on his nerves. Though, truth be told, he didn't much care at the time. The haze of fever and nausea kept his mouth shut and eyes mostly closed. He was wracked with intermittent shivers, leaving him cold and yet viciously hot at the same time. It was too soon to take another dose of paracetamol, although at this point he might chance a wee bit of liver damage if it meant even a modicum of relief.

With great effort, he managed to trudge up the stairs, the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other taking much more energy than it did earlier this afternoon. He had to stop halfway, swiping a hand across his brow and clenching a fist in his soiled coat…damn, it was even getting hard to breathe.

The Omega wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

**LINE BREAK**

The doorknob jiggled, an exasperated sigh punctuating the motion.

"_Oh for…!_" Trudi's voice sounded from behind the locked door, irritated and terse, "Who locked this _bloody_ door?"

John closed the filing cabinet as quickly and quietly as possible, taking his seat as he heard the tell-tale jingle of keys. In less than a minute, the young nurse was poking her head through the widening crack in the door.

"Mr. Watson?"

"I'm here, yes," John clasped his hands in lap, swinging one leg over the other, a picture of perfect calm and patience.

"Oh, bless…" She moved inside, fluttering one hand behind her to close the door and juggling the myriad of supplies in her grasp, "I'm so sorry, I really am. You must think us so unprofessional," Trudi twittered nervously, laying everything she needed out on the table.

"No…no, it's alright. Things happen, I understand."

"You're too kind, really," she praised, motioning for him to take off his coat and roll his sleeves up for her perusal, "and pardon my saying, but you look _awful_. Are you feeling alright?"

"I do feel awful, yeah. I think I've had a bit of a reaction to the flu jab you gave me a couple days ago. Been feeling a little…unwell…ever since then."

She looked up at him, her face revealing neither surprise nor concern.

"Oh well," she chimed, tying the tourniquet and administering a few well-place slaps to the underside of his arm, "that's common enough. Bit of aches and pains, slight fever, yes?"

John coughed, but tried to stay still, only pumping his right hand to assist in engorging his veins. The blond wasn't about to tell the young woman that it was more than just a 'bit of aches and pains.'

"Something like that, yeah."

"Happens all the time, it'll probably blow over in a few days. Just a small price to pay for immunity to the real thing, right?"

He cracked a sardonic smile, "I don't know, why don't you ask me in a few days."

Trudi returned his smile, her eyes wrinkling at the corners, conveying true mirth. Once again, John hoped she wasn't a part of all this. She seemed a truly gentle and kind soul; it would be a shame if she had to go down with the likes of Wilkes and Adler.

"Trudi, do you mind if I ask you a question?"

She hummed a noise of assent, twisting the straight needle into the vacutainer, readying for the blood draw. The alcohol wipe was cold against the inner crook of John's elbow.

"What exactly is going on? I mean, who is making all that noise?" John tried to sound only mildly interested, as if it would be alright if she didn't answer at all. He hoped she did, and that he didn't appear too eager.

Trudi didn't say anything at first, only bit at her own cherry red bottom lip as she drew tube after tube of blood, four total. She was remarkably efficient, as before, and when she was done, placed a small plaster at the puncture site.

She rolled the tubes back and forth in the air, gently, letting the blood come in contact with the khaki coloured gel already present in the cylindrical containers. It appeared she was thinking, maybe lost in her own thoughts, or maybe trying to puzzle out how to respond to John's query.

"Well," she began, looking over at the door anxiously. The hallway was quiet now, but that didn't mean there wasn't still trouble brewing, "it all began just before you came. There was a man, some kind of Doctor I think, who used to work with Seb – Dr. Wilkes, and Dr. Adler. I'd never seen him before, but I could tell right away he was going to be trouble."

"Oh?" John bent his arm, placing pressure on the small wound.

"Yes well, he stormed right in here, scared Jeremy half to death and helped himself to the back offices - as pushy as you please!" The young woman labelled the cylinders, pulling several pre-printed stickers containing John's information on each one. "Thing is, they didn't ask him to leave! They just…let him scream at them. It's…not normal that is, that kind of behaviour."

John nodded, agreeing, a hazy mental picture forming in his mind as to who exactly this mysterious intruder could be.

"Jeremy told me he's called security, have they come?"

"I think they're on their way. Although I don't know what good it'll do. It's hard to calm someone down after that kind of row," she gathered her supplies, gently placing all the tubes in a bag marked 'biohazard.'

"Look," she continued, taking in John's exhausted and emaciated form, "I know they'd like to see you but, considering what's happened…and since you're not feeling well…why don't you just head on back home for now. I'll have them call you if they need to. How's that sound?"

A wave of relief flooded John's small form. He wanted to take both his hands, grip the sides of her lovely face and plant one giant, grateful kiss on her thin lips. But instead, John mustered a smile - a small token of his gratitude towards the young nurse.

"Thank you, yes, a cuppa and bit of sleep sounds quite wonderful right about now."

He rolled his sleeves back down once he realized he was in no danger of haemorrhaging from the tiny pinprick on the inside of his elbow, then shrugged his coat back on. He felt his movements were exaggerated and slow, but that could just be from the pounding in his head and the sharp, lancing pain down his right leg.

He followed Trudi out of the room, hopeful that the pictures on his mobile would be helpful…otherwise, well, at least he could tell them where the majority of their files were kept (if this was indeed the _majority_ of their files). It seemed strange that there wasn't more security, but it did make sense in a weird sort of way. Perhaps they were overconfident? They had no reason to suspect they were being monitored, that John was a plant. The Omega was very careful not to give himself away, and he knew both Sherlock and Mycroft were nothing if not remarkably skilful with their secrets.

Both John and Trudi passed by several security guards on the way out. The blond gave them a wide berth, not wishing to cause attention to himself, but they seemed more interested in getting a bit of the story from Jeremy before heading into the fray themselves. Things had quieted down noticeably since his arrival, but John knew that didn't necessarily mean anything. He entertained a fleeting fantasy of Dr. Wilkes groaning in pain, nose bloodied from a rowdy confrontation…it would serve the bastard right.

He made it out of the Centre easily, feeling slightly foolish now about his gloom and doom mentality before his appointment. This had all been easier than expected, and if Sherlock could garner any information from his haphazard collection of pictures then he wouldn't consider the visit a complete waste. Not even the throbbing in his head, the nausea, or his aching hip could prevent the tiniest of smiles from appearing on his face.

**LINE BREAK**

When he finally made it to his room, it was cold and empty. The space smelt vaguely of musk and dirt, a scent that John had long ago resigned himself to get used to. Living under the bridge (a place not well known for its air circulation), and the everyday odour of unwashed humanity was as familiar a scent as fish and chips or malt vinegar. He didn't really notice it so much anymore (his medical classes reminding him that the brain eventually 'abandons' constant stimuli in favour of something new), but he figured it must be all the time he's spent outside in the fresh air and in clean places that's making the stench especially poignant.

Marcus and the girls were nowhere to be seen, and though the blond wonders what exactly they're getting up to, he is grateful. A couple hours of sleep, and the Omega might be ready to tackle Sherlock and their – relationship? – with a clear head and some much needed sense.

After all, this talk could change _everything_.

If Sherlock still wanted John to move in and take the extra room (revelatory conversations from this afternoon notwithstanding), John's not entirely sure he would still say no. It's not as if John wants to be homeless, but…he doesn't accept charity either. He's not a moocher and, under the circumstances, would make doubly sure he was able to pay his own way from the get-go. That would certainly take some time, and some serious, deep down cleansing. He realized he could take a job, any job, even though his latent status still would interfere a bit on that front.

He remembered their stares when first he came home, eyes full of pity, though rarely did they truly make direct eye contact. John was used to fielding saddened glances from strangers and busy souls making their way down the streets, but never was he subjected to so obvious a display as the suited and bespectacled interviewers who stated (under no uncertain terms) that he was not qualified for any of their open positions but they would certainly keep his CV on file. The interviews were uncomfortable, to say that least, and being a latent Omega (or as those less politically correct still say, half-gender) didn't help him one whit. They never lasted long anyway, and John was forced to return to his tiny little corner of government housing and continue his internal debate the actual colour of the walls (beige? taupe? tan? mushroom?)

John stripped off his coat, letting it lay next to his bedroll, which also smelt of dirt and sweat. He reminded himself he needed to include this ratty excuse for a bed when next he did the washing, which would hopefully be in a day or two, when (and if) he felt better. He always seemed to forget about it, focussing more on washing his clothes and body then flannels and bedrolls. Surprisingly enough, it was Marcus that reminded him more often than not.

Regardless, it was comfort, though not nearly as soft and cushiony as he would like. At this point, he'd sleep on top of a boulder so long as it didn't try to get up and run away from him. A quick punch to his dingy pillow, and the Omega nestled in, praying sleep would come quickly. Just before he closed his eyes, he remembered to set an alarm on his iPhone for 6:50pm. That way, he could be awake and ready when the apex Alpha, Sherlock, decided to make his grand appearance and (hopefully) change his future for the better.

**LINE BREAK**

John woke abruptly, startled, and only slowly becoming aware of a pounding noise making its way through the entire bungalow. He sat up quickly, then just as quickly realized what a mistake that was. He gripped the sides of his head with his hands, unable to prevent a low groan. He _really_ should have taken some more painkillers before he laid down a few hours ago. Well, he thought it was a few hours, anyway.

He glanced outside the window that faced the street, taking in the dim glow of the sodium lights as they reflected off the misty clouds of rain that floated in the air like dust motes. It was dark now, and with a glance at his mobile, John noticed it was 6:30pm – just before his alarm was set to sound.

The pounding continued, and quite suddenly, John felt a rush of salty saliva in his mouth. The urge to retch was so strong that he grabbed a large empty cup he kept on the floor beside his bed, quickly placing it under his mouth in case he really did sick up. A few strong, painful abdominal spasms later, and John was rewarded with only a tablespoon or so of thick, viscous bile sitting at the bottom of the cup. He sat it down, as far away as he could, not wanting the foul smelling fluid anywhere near his person – not while his nausea was still roiling around in his stomach.

It was only just then that he became aware that the pounding, previously only thought to be in his head, was in fact someone banging ferociously on the door downstairs. With a grimace and another groan, he shuffled his way to the window, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

In the rainy early evening, just underneath the nearest streetlight, sat a large black sedan, running quietly and with its headlamps still on. At his door, two burly suited government types went in for another rude round of knocking, seemingly uncaring that it was pissing down rain and the entire row of rundown houses appeared to be abandoned.

"Mycroft," John muttered with vitriol. It was just his luck that the tall, stuffy man would show up here just before he and his brother were set to meet. Probably to interfere, or maybe tell John he wasn't good enough?

He really needn't bother; the Omega already knew he wasn't good enough.

With another grumble and lurching wave of nausea, John put on his coat and made his way downstairs. He grabbed his mobile, absently gripping it in left hand as he forced himself down the stairs to open the door.

He must have been a pathetic sight. Pale, exhausted (even still), tellingly thin – he didn't miss the surprise and weighted look the two men shared before the taller one spoke.

"John Hamish Watson," a surprising tenor for a man of such size. "Please get in the car."

The blond was taken aback momentarily by the use of his full name, only Mycroft would be pretentious enough to use the middle name he so hated. The man probably already had a file on him as thick as the Old Testament, with just as many stories to boot.

"Yeah? Says who?" Mycroft or no Mycroft, he didn't like being ordered around. This warranted an explanation, and John would go nowhere until he had one.

The men shared yet another loaded glance, this time the other one moved his hand in front of his blazer to gently pull back the fabric and reveal a Taser strapped to a loop on his belt.

A cold shock adrenaline coursed through John's veins. He suddenly realized – this wasn't Mycroft.

It must have shown on his face, though normally he would be much more careful with his features (everyone always said his face was so expressive), but the abrupt blankness and slowly dawning look of alarm must have tipped them off. John didn't have much of a plan except _get away_, and get away _now_.

He gripped the handle of the front door and swung it round in front of him in a great_ whoosh_ of air. It was his first panicked reaction, but probably not the most helpful. The door would have slammed shut with a resounding _crack_, if it hadn't been wedged open by a quickly placed steel-toed boot (a rather strange juxtaposition against the suit). The man with the Taser was pushing full force against the door, grunting with exertion as John threw himself bodily against it a futile attempt to keep them from entering the bungalow.

This couldn't go on for long, John knew, he was weak and exhausted. Adrenaline rushed through his body, coarse and bright, and it would only last for so long. He needed a plan.

The back door.

Hopefully it was unguarded, and if he ran full force right now, he might be able to make it out onto the street where he had a much better chance of hiding and getting away. Well, that was it, it was the only plan he had, and he better make it good.

The nausea and pains from the past day and a half seemed to fade away as John gathered all his energy on this one wild, mad dash. He leapt away from the door, his phone dropping from his hand and feet thudding against the wooden floor across the living room. He paid no attention to the noises behind him as he rounded a dividing wall into the kitchen. The blond could only hear his own breath, loud and stuttering in his ears as he gripped the handle of the back door and flung the door open wide.

The handle of the door cracked against the wall, just as a meaty fist met John's head in a crushing blow to the left temple. The Omega staggered and fell hard on his backside, clutching the side of his face, stunned momentarily.

He was only vaguely aware of a third goon, not dressed near as nice as the first two, stepping through the backyard and into the filthy kitchen.

"I told you," the man quipped, a rather pleased smile on his scarred face.

"Yeah yeah, you're so _bloody_ brilliant," Taser man replied, sounding quite put out. "Get back to the car, they wanted him as undamaged as possible, you wanker!"

"Not my fault," the man whose fist John had just become painfully intimate with stepped over his crouched form and lit a fag, "don't make me wait too long."

"Just get to the damn car and be ready."

John heard this exchange as though he were floating under water. Their speech was muffled and distorted, and when he pulled his hand away from his temple it felt slippery and sticky. He licked his cracked lips and tasted blood. Jesus Christ that man had a fist like a wrecking ball.

He only vaguely became aware of strong and merciless hands clutching his ragged jumper and underarms, forcing him into an upright position before bodily carrying him out of the bungalow. He wanted to vomit again, the tides of nausea pulling at his consciousness – but he swallowed it down as much as he could. He couldn't let this happen. He had to _fight_, to _get away_. Dammit, he was a _soldier_; he'd seen and fared worse than this. He'd be damned if he was going to make them get away with this so easily.

John realized he was being carried by the two men, one clutching at his underarms, and the other holding his ankles. They must be outside now, as the wash of cool air and raindrops helped bring him out of his fist induced stupor.

With a strengthening breath, he struggled with all his might; clenching his abdominal muscles and trying to kick away at the man clutching his ankles. Taser man managed to hold on for a few seconds, but with a cry and another fierce muscle contraction, John's right leg wrangled free and allowed the blond to deliver a vicious kick straight to the man's face. The accompanying crunch and fount of hot, metallic blood was appropriately satisfying, but did nothing to stray John from his goal. With a sudden twist of his upper body, he was able to take advantage of the taller man's surprise and wrench himself completely free.

Who were these goons anyway? They obviously needed more training.

John landed on the rough, hard ground and curled himself into a crouch. He was off-balance and unsteady on his feet, though he had managed to stand up once more. The ground swayed and gave under him, giving him the impression of walking on fine wet sand. He blinked a few more times, more to get the rain out of his face than anything else.

Both men had recovered from their surprise…and each with hellishly dangerous looks on their faces now. The shorter man gripped his Taser in his right hand, advancing on John with the slow careful movements of a predator.

The Omega backed away, the street was narrow and unkempt, and not exactly the ideal place for trying to hide.

Two honks of a car horn sounded in the muffled and rainy night. The driver, the man who'd practically cracked open John's skull with his fist, stepped out into the night. He carried a gun at his side, and his body strained with an overt kind of tension that made John realize he wasn't afraid to use it.

"C'mon boys, you've played around long enough," he took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked it out into the street, it hissed as it landed into a puddle, "get it over with."

"Get into the car, John," the taller man with the strangely high voice offered, waving his hand towards the black sedan, "make this easier on all of us now, there's a good lad."

"Fuck you!" John spat, continuing to back away, hoping like hell he'd be able to find himself a way out this alive. A low roll of thunder accentuated his verbal abuse, heralding another wave of rain.

"Now, that's not very nice," the man with the Taser shot forward, diving at John's legs as he did so. He fell laughably short, and John, sensing an advantage, kicked him savagely in the gut before he was able to roll onto his back.

He would have continued to do so; he would have fought till there was no energy or breath left in his body, if it hadn't been for the cold tell-tale press of a gun muzzle against the back of his head.

He froze, stopped short, every muscle in his body locking in place. The taller man helped the downed goon get to his feet with a grunt, and John was instantly rewarded with a cruel punch to the gut.

He wheezed and grimaced, forcing himself through the pain and fire in his belly, only just managing to stay upright. It was only when John no longer felt the threat of the gun to the back of his head that he realized they were no longer alone.

All three men were looking down the street, eyes fixed on something, or someone, else.

"John?" A familiar baritone rang out into the blustery night.

The Omega spun his head to the side, panic rising in his blood once more. He moved to step forward, but the man with the gun gripped his left bicep like a vice.

"Marcus, no!" he practically screamed, terror and alarm making his voice brittle and high pitched, "go away! Get away from here?"

"John, what is happening?" Marcus took in the entire scene, and bless his heart if it only took one more second for it all to slot into place. His expression spoke of dawning realization, just as his voice shook with instant thunderous rage, "_what is happening, John?_"

Marcus dropped the paper bag he held at his side, uncaring as it plopped to the ground and fell to its side, spilling its contents onto the cold, wet cement.

He advanced on the small group, face twisted in sheer animosity, his hammy fists clenched dangerously at his side.

John did the only thing he could do, plead.

"Please, I'll go with you just…just don't –"

Taser man only snorted with contempt, using the blond's distraction to move in to press the stun gun to his neck with unbridled glee.

John's words dissolved into a voiceless scream as current after current of electricity surged through his small and haggard body. Every muscle seized at once, preventing John from moving, screaming, even _breathing. _He fell to the ground in an exhausted heap, gasping and gulping in air, half his face resting in a puddle. John tried to get back up, really he did, but he was overwhelmed with pain and a profound muscular weakness that could only be the end result of a disabling electrical current.

It seemed they had used the badly timed interruption of Marcus' appearance to get the upper hand after all.

A bellowing scream of fear and distress split the air as Marcus, cutting quite the intimidating figure, leapt towards the three men still standing. He held his hands out in front of him, fingers contracted in a claw-like threat. It was obvious that he was out for blood, and they'd be lucky if he stopped there.

"Fuckin' hell, we don't have time for this." The man with the gun rounded on Marcus with a swiftness that belied his size; he took aim and cocked his head, a ripple of movement accompanying a squeeze of his trigger finger.

John couldn't move, he could say nothing as Marcus lunged towards the Taser man, teeth bared in animalistic ferocity. Then –

_Pop_

Oh Jesus, oh god_ no_; oh please _God_ no –

_PopPopPop _

Four familiar percussive blasts shot through the night air, leaving John's ears ringing.

He wanted to close his eyes, God, he _wanted_ to, but he couldn't.

Marcus didn't go down all at once. He took the first shot full in the chest, staggering ever so slightly, but continued in his rampage towards John's attackers. It wasn't until the third and fourth bullet struck home that he fell. He fell in one thundering crash, displacing large puddles of water as he landed, on his back, his face turned towards John.

They locked eyes, one pair anguished and slowly losing their light, the other pair heartbroken and utterly devastated. John couldn't speak, the lump in his throat was sudden and fierce, painful, but he cried. None of the other men noticed as John slowly whimpered onto the ground, each tear dissolving and blending with the raindrops that slid effortlessly down his face.

_I'm sorry_, he wanted to say, _I'm so sorry_.

Marcus' body convulsed, his lips twitching, expression pained. John knew what this was; he'd seen it so many times before on the battlefield…it wouldn't be long now.

His attackers moved around him, footsteps splashing through dirty street water, muttering to each other. But John didn't pay them any attention; he was focussed on his friend. It didn't matter that this was how it ended, with Marcus flat on his back and John on his belly, both suffering and heartsick. He would try to make this better.

With the last few vestiges of his energy, John was able to mouth three simple words. It was those words that John wanted Marcus to be the last thing he saw before he left this world. This was his last gift to this man that had stayed and comforted him throughout one of the most painful times of his life. This was the last thing he could do for the man who tried to save him, even if it was a rash and foolish thing to do.

_I love you_, he mouthed, before his face contorted completely, a noiseless sob robbing him of his control.

He swore he thought he saw Marcus smile, even a little, before his body let go completely, eyelids half-closed against the storm.

LINE BREAK

He didn't have the will to fight anymore. He'd rather just lay there, half-drowned in a puddle.

But these men, apparently, had other plans.

"Go on Jake, make it quick. This entire night's gone to hell. _Someone_ will have heard that."

"Yeah alright, bloody hell…"

John was roughly flipped over onto his back, his vision greeted by the taller, unarmed man holding a glinting syringe. It only took a moment for them to callously pull down his soaked jeans, and administer the injection in this thigh. John didn't make a noise, he didn't even move. They had won, for now.

And as he was once more lifted bodily from the ground, as his vision faded and chemically induced exhaustion teased him with dreamless slumber, he couldn't help but remember his last image of Marcus.

He was stretched out, on the pavement, pupils dilated, eyes cold and fixed. Blood gushed sluggishly through the holes in his unwashed jumper, collecting in cracks and divots in the pavement, merging with the water and flowing in russet rivulets and waves down into the gutter.


	21. Chapter 21

The jarring flash of blue and red police lights tripped and stuttered across the wet concrete, reflecting off puddles of murky water and casting the entire street in a pulsing, sickening glow.

Though the call to 999 was anonymous, the Met responded with satisfying quickness, something that both relieved and emotionally bolstered the grieving squatters of the bungalow. As the investigators began to swarm the scene, blue and white tape was strewn across the lane, blocking any and all pedestrians and motor vehicles from stopping to gawk and possibly catch a morbid glimpse of something altogether more gruesome.

Julia and Brandy sat on the front step of their questionable residence, each covered in an eye shockingly bright orange blanket. Julia's face was a mask of non-emotion, one arm wrapped around her girlfriend protectively; while Brandy shivered and sobbed into the scratchy coverlet, clutching at it tightly with one hand whilst the other quivered over her protuberant belly. They had already been questioned by the police, to little avail, and were now awaiting transportation to whatever shelter the police deemed suitable for the two women. They were lucky, actually, as no charges were brought upon the two for squatting. Together, they huddled for extra warmth at the steps, both noticeably _not_ looking at the body lying only a scant distance away.

The street was buzzing with activity, each protocol and policy in full swing as the professionals bagged, tagged, and photographed every bit of evidence they could find. The body was unmoved, soaked and strangely deflated appearing as it rested with unearthly stillness against the pavements.

And so the scene was set, each macabre player perfectly positioned, appearing sallow and tired under the intensely glaring lights.

**LINE BREAK**

All things considered, it had been a remarkably good day.

He didn't think John would mind if he was a little bit late (_would_ John mind?), considering he had stopped by his favourite Indian establishment to pick up a bit of takeout before heading to the bungalow. He had deduced the Omega's preferred dish upon meeting him only a few short weeks ago (curry stains on the edge of one frayed cuff, as well as the scent of a few unmistakable spices on his breath), and he only hoped it would be to his liking.

He studiously ignored a sudden influx of adrenaline upon his arrival to the shabby street corner that marked the entrance to the equally shabby street housing John's little domicile. He reminded himself once more that he really needed to work on getting John to agree to live with him. It was best for both of them, after all, if John was going to be his. If he agreed, that is - if he actually wanted to _be_ with Sherlock.

Another unwelcome rush of nerves accompanied that last thought. Would John really prefer to remain homeless rather than live with him? Would Sherlock let him? As much as he wanted to respect the man's wishes, he really couldn't stomach the thought of allowing him to remain a drifter, wasting away with the ruffians underneath that horrid, crumbling bridge.

Oh, who the hell was he kidding anyway? John did what John wanted to do, Sherlock had learned early on, and there was little anyone could do to convince him otherwise. He had suffered too many years living on his own, painfully eking out his own way in an unforgiving world, guilty of only being born with one tiny, faulty gland.

He threw a few crumpled notes to the cabbie and let himself out into the damp night, avoiding the ruts and puddles forming tiny topographical formations down the lane. It wasn't long before several sudden flashes of light echoed off the low-placed plashets, instantly grabbing his attention.

He frowned immediately, peering down the lane through the mist and clinging wetness of the post-storm atmosphere. Just around the corner, the fierce glow of police lights blinked on and off against the brick houses, a familiar strobe-like tattoo he had long become comfortable with. He gripped the thin paper bag, hands clenching as a moment of raw panic tensed the muscles and wrinkled the sticky white paper.

As he moved faster down the street; his stomach, which only moments ago bubbled with nervous energy, now clenched in a tight ball of dread. He didn't know what he would find when he turned the corner, but he had a feeling it wouldn't be good.

Indeed, the display spread out before him was no different from nearly any other crime scene he had viewed in the many years he'd been consulting with the Met. The important difference (the most harrowing and gut-wrenching difference) was that this…this was someplace he knew intimately. These were people that he _knew_. He stifled that thought the moment it floated to the surface, now was not the time for distraction, now was not the time for _sentiment_.

He couldn't see past the panda cars at first, but once he did, his vision narrowed and all outside stimulus was abandoned for only the most important, most critical information his Alpha senses could gather.

Each data set presented itself in complete and savage clarity - Brandy and Julia, sombre and despondent, clutching each other with wan faces - Detective Lestrade, tired and overworked, as only a Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan Police force could – Sally Donovan and her erstwhile lover, the weaselly Anderson, spoke lowly while she desperately tried to wrangle the gathering crowds and onlookers.

Then he saw the body.

Marcus was laid out for him in eye-searing detail: the turn of his head, his shaggy hair drifting lazily in a shallow puddle, the angle of the bullet holes, and how his left hand stretched out away from his body, as if grasping (reaching) for something far, far away.

There was more, there was so much more, all of the information rushing and crashing and beating against his senses. Deductions and conclusions zipped through his mind at dizzying speeds, monopolizing his concentration and keeping him blissfully unaware of Detective Lestrade trying desperately to get his attention –

_-bag on the ground, in the water (brown, paper, small, soaked) filled with white cartons of leaking Chinese and Lion bars spread across the pavements, dropped – no – thrown down (the distance to which one Lion bar landed away from the bag indicates a fair amount of force in which it was shoved away from his person), contents tumbled to the side, he was surprised or afraid, but the bag is a full 6 metres away from where he went down, then the shooting happened, and it happened quickly, he must have lunged, ran towards his attackers who had upset him, but why had they upset him? – four bullet holes, 9mm by approximation (two most common being Sig P226, or Glock 17, most likely military), statistically more likely to be black market, tampered with, difficult to get a hold of with today's dealers but easier than some might think, his knees, both knees have dark splotches of dirt embedded in the front of his jeans, dirt from an impact on the road, he must have fallen to his knees after he was shot but before he went down completely_ –

Sherlock moved towards the body, deathly silent, each step placed with singular intent. Marcus, half-supine on the cement, the lower portion of his body twisted to the left, knees slightly bent, beckoned him forward with morbid allure. The Alpha was cautious not to touch the body in any way, but he kneeled and leant as close as he could, eyeing the bullet wounds as if analysing a particularly puzzling specimen under a microscope. It was only a moment's fumbling to pull out his small magnifying glass (which he had on hand at all times) and inspect the wounds more closely –

_-close range, impact probably no further than 10 or so metres (the angle appears to be consistent), which means assailant was about 180 to 190 centimetres (give or take, more approximate estimation after in-depth scrutiny during post-mortem) – _

He then rose and stepped away, blissfully unaware of the cacophony of sound around him, the discordant symphony of a crime scene (flash bulbs, radios, errant sirens, raised voices, crying). He eyes followed the trail of dirty water and blood as it flowed lazily down into an adjacent storm sewer, moving even still, though the rain had ceased to fall at least 20 minutes ago.

He remained silent as he moved further down the lane, ignoring a determined Lestrade who was still trying to speak to the consulting detective –

_-here, the shooter was most likely standing here, unable to truly tell if it was only one or more than one (more data needed), further study of the bullet casings would confirm if the bullets were all from the same gun, but why shoot Marcus? – Marcus who was normally confused, most oftentimes comically slow and gentle, only protective and frenzied when threated or when – _

His breath hitched, pausing in its exhalation to stick painfully in the brunet's throat.

"John?" Sherlock stopped, turning around so suddenly it was all he could do not to spin face first into one very irritated and impatient Detective Inspector, "where's John?"

"Jesus bloody Christ Sherlock?!" Lestrade's gruff voice perfectly illustrated how not tolerant he was feeling at the moment, "only I've been trying to get your attention the entire time you've been here."

"Where is John?" Sherlock put careful emphasis on each syllable, hoping that maybe with his superb diction the question would somehow get through the man's thick skull.

"Look mate," the silvery haired Beta gripped a radio in one hand, waving it in an arc to get Sherlock's full attention, "this is not the best place for you to be right now. We've got this in hand Sherlock, but I'm afraid that I have to ask you to leave."

"You've got this _in hand?_" Sherlock parroted with venom, unamused, the tone of his voice bordering on outright contempt. He makes one complete circle of the body, stepping backwards all the while, arms splayed out at his sides. "By _in hand_, do you mean making a mockery of modern investigation, or were you and your team just being blissfully witless, as _per usual?_"

Lestrade clamped his mouth shut, brows dangerously tense above tired eyes. It was glaringly obvious this was not the first time Sherlock had spoken to him thusly, and a tight smile accompanied a long-suffering breath that did little to loosen the expression on his weathered face.

"I didn't phone you this time Sherlock, and I can't have you here knowing what I know. It's being handled." While Lestrade had been on the outskirts of the investigation so far, he was never more than a phone call away.

The Alpha's eyes narrowed at that last word, wondering at the unusual inflection placed upon its two syllables. Handled? What did he mean, handled?

A look of dawning comprehension clicked onto the apex Alpha's handsome brow. Oh of course, _handled_.

With a sigh borne of complete and utter disgust, he rounded once again on the Detective, face cool and grim.

"Tell me Lestrade, do you do everything my brother tells you? Or do you only get in my way when it proves especially bothersome?"

"Alright, now –"

"You know it doesn't really come as a surprise that my portly sibling's got you in his pocket. I expect it's rather crowded in there, what with the pastries and chocolates he's so especially fond of."

"Sherlock," it was a warning, short, but a warning nonetheless. Lestrade levelled a glare at him that would have cowed a lesser man…but Sherlock Holmes was no _lesser man_.

"Oi, freak, what are _you_ doing here? You heard Greg, run along." Sally Donovan moved across the asphalt, inserting herself into their little row with arms crossed angrily over her chest. Her ferrety lover, Anderson, hovered behind her in his forensics onesie, oozing scorn and self-importance.

Sherlock ignored Sally, sending a veritable tidal wave of frosty aloofness in her direction. He had never got on with the more junior officer, and he certainly wasn't going to start now. A puff of irritated hormones floated from the Alpha woman's general direction and Sherlock studiously ignored this as well.

"You already know how much I hate to repeat myself, but since you're being insufferably dim-witted this evening, I suppose I can deign to say it once more," the brunet took small, even steps towards the DI, keeping an intense amount of eye contact the entire time, "where – is – John?"

Lestrade took a long moment to consider his answer, then, he finally exhaled and let his hands rest limply at his side. All the bravado seemed to leech out of him at once.

"Truth is…we don't know where he is Sherlock. He wasn't here when we arrived. The girls…" he motioned to the sniffling young women at the steps of the bungalow, "…haven't seen him, and well – he's not going to tell us much." His exhausted brown eyes moved from the women to the unmoving tableau of Marcus' corpse.

"Oh, I rather disagree."

"Right, is this where you're going to do your little trick then?" Anderson's snide, nasally voice floated over the from behind Sally, vibrating in noisome little waves in the pit of Sherlock's stomach.

"It's not a trick, which you'd realize if you'd for once open your eyes and observe the world around you. Look," Sherlock ran his gaze back over the body, stepping towards the lifeless man, "look at how he fell, legs twisted and arm out to the side. That alone should give you a clue as to how he died. Look at the bag and how _it_ fell. What does _that_ tell you? Judging by the angle of the gunshots I can most accurately estimate the height and distance of the shooter, and I can also tell you _what_ he was doing when he was killed."

"Come on, that's nonsense, you're just making things up now!" Anderson's eyebrows slid upward on his sallow face, giving the impression of a very surprised and very hawkish river rat. Donovan snickered behind her radio while Lestrade shrugged and stuffed one hand in his soggy trench coat.

"Well, he wouldn't have to make things up at all would he, if he was actually here when it happened." Sally chimed in, letting the implication of that statement sit and simmer for a moment. It wasn't the first time she'd accused Sherlock of being the number one suspect of a murder case, and it probably wouldn't be the last. The apex Alpha had often wondered if he'd somehow wronged her in the past, or if she just had a naturally untrusting nature and could find no one more convenient to take it out on than Sherlock himself.

It didn't bother him in the least, of course. If he really _was_ the murderer, the police wouldn't even be here questioning his motives. They'd be in their little Yard, at their silly little desks with their disgusting office coffee, blithely ignorant and forever remaining that way. He _certainly_ wouldn't be idiotic enough to leave something as condemning as an actual body at the scene of the crime.

Sherlock whipped his head around, his coat and long legs turning just as quickly afterwards. If his calculations were correct (and they almost always were), the shooter would've had to have been standing right…_here_.

He paused, inspecting the wet and shining cement for any clue, any indication of who had been there, and why they would shoot a homeless man with the mentality of a 6yr old. Of course, it was entirely possible that it had been an accident, or that they had not known who he was (Sherlock was quite willing to entertain any possibility of the circumstances).

Lestrade and the others fell into hushed whispers and short, angry looks rife with impatience and disbelief. It seemed Donovan and Anderson were arguing a point with their DI, and losing.

He dismissed their hissing whispers for now, focusing on every reflection of the puddles and every twist and crack of the pavement surface, knowing each clue would take him closer to figuring out what the hell had happened here.

And then he saw it - he saw it bobbing gently, looking so nondescript and innocuous that he was certain it was far from being so.

One lone cigarette butt, isolated in a small but deep puddle just to the left of the middle of the street, floated on still water.

If it had been any butt, well any _other_ cigarette butt, it would have joined its comrades at the edge of the street, caught in the current of the water and bullied along by other detritus (plastic bags, twigs, leaves, dirt, and the like). No, this one was all by itself, and glaringly white, clean.

"Anderson! Bring me an evidence bag!" Sherlock shouted over his shoulder, reopening his magnifying glass once more, while also unveiling a small pair of delicate tweezers.

Anderson shot a sharp, questioning glance to Lestrade, who answered with one of his own.

"Oh come _on_ man! I'm obviously not asking for my health!" The Alpha snapped, gripping the extinguished fag with the tweezers, careful not to squeeze too hard. With his magnifier in his other hand, he inspected the end of the filter, noting the yellowish stains (_low_ tar), and a strange waxy substance clinging to the sides of the while filter paper, making the water bead and slide along the cylindrical sides. He leant his head forward a bit and sniffed the tiny bit of evidence, a hypothesis forming in his quick mind.

It was a longshot, but if he could just get a little bit more light, he moved gracefully under one of the closest streetlamps, face ethereal and serene its concentration, and then…ah…_eureka!_

He twirled in triumph, dropping the butt gingerly into the clear bag grudgingly provided by an unhappy looking Anderson.

"And what is this? A cigarette? How could this possibly be related to the murder?" Donovan peered at the bag with obvious scepticism, locking eyes with each man in turn, except Sherlock. "It could be from anyone, and anywhere, what with the rain. This is a waste of time, boss, he's obviously having a laugh!"

"That could be true Sally, as you say, but considering this puddle is especially deep and seems to have formed its own independent collection of water, it's more probable that the butt was placed, or rather, _flicked_, and landed there. Judging also by its clean base and lack of accumulated dirt and soil, I would say it's rather recent. All of that aside, I think the most convincing evidence is what you will find ringed around the edges of the paper, none other than lip balm – Lypsyl Honeyberry, to be exact. Its scent is _rather_ distinctive."

"What the hell does lip balm have to do with any of this?" Lestrade queried, moving closer to the baggie to get his own look up close.

Anderson held it aloft, a flush creeping up his narrow face, he sighed rather loudly before speaking. "DNA evidence. It could be from our killer."

Sherlock gasped melodramatically, putting away his glass and tweezers. "Jolly good, Anderson! Didn't see you there before, have you been here the _entire_ time?"

"Alright, alright, enough with it," Lestrade waved his hands, ushering Sherlock over and away from the other two, "it might be from our killer, but is also might _not_ be. What exactly are trying to say here?"

The taller man's gaze fell, face going serious and utterly grave.

"I think John has been abducted."

Sherlock knew the outside world was still moving around him, still taking pictures, still making phone calls, still weeping and grieving for a friend, but there was something in voicing his suspicion that made it all stop. It made it all very quiet, all at once. He felt his heart squeeze and lurch inside his chest (it did so have a habit of making itself known at the most inopportune times).

It was easy to pretend this was business as usual; easy to pretend that this was simply another crime scene, but the truth of the matter was…this was _John_.

He should have seen this coming. He really should have. He should never have let him go to that blasted study alone, just like he should have never, _ever_ asked him for his help in the first place.

The only thing he could do now, the only thing that could really help his Omega (his?), was the cool deductive reasoning he had become to rely on so thoroughly throughout his lifetime. He owed him that, at least, and if he was found alive (_when_ he was found alive), he would owe him so much more.

Lestrade nodded, his expression closed off now, and as equally severe. The older Detective moved away then, barking orders at his team to finish up and get moving - play time was over. Sally and Donovan stood at a distance, flinging surreptitious glances at the apex Alpha, but remaining silent.

They moved on, doing their duty as it were, while Sherlock was stood there, staring, and thinking.

"It's you, you're him, right? I have something for you." A small, and very pregnant ginger woman hovered at his side, nervous, she seemed vaguely familiar. He hadn't noticed her so close before, and the scent of Omega filled his nostrils, pervasive and maddening, made even more so by the pregnancy.

"I found it inside…th-the alarm was going off, making a right racket. I didn't want the police to have it. I know you gave it to him. I helped him with it you know, at the beginning."

She clutched John's mobile in her hand, glancing around as if making some kind of sordid dealing, and being entirely too obvious about it.

Sherlock took the mobile with a quick swipe of his hand, making sure no one saw the small electronic device make its way into his Belstaff.

"Thank you," was all he could manage. He wished he could say more, but it was heartfelt, regardless.

She only smiled sadly, a small and fragile thing as she made her way back to the steps of the bungalow and into the warm arms of her beloved.

Striding forward with renewed purpose, Sherlock quickly made his way out of the alley and onto the adjoining street. He'd have to walk a few more blocks before he'd find a street crowded and reputable enough to flag down a cab, but that was just fine with him. He had things to do, people to call, and someone to save.

**LINE BREAK**

Molly finally pulled away from her desk, stretching long and cat-like against the back of her chair. She yawned, wide and loud, blinking blearily before reaching over her desk and turning out her small but somehow horrifically bright desk lamp.

It had been a long day, relatively quiet, but full nonetheless. Mrs. Thatcher's corpse had been especially ridiculous; honestly Molly'd never seen anyone manage to die from angering a milking cow, but, she supposed stranger things _had_ happened.

It was just as she was about to completely lock up for the evening, just as she was heading through the wooden double doors out of her lab, that her mobile rang.

A name flashed upon the screen, one she wasn't entirely expecting, but one she knew she could never ignore.

"Sherlock?" She answered, cupping her mobile closely while pulling at her handbag.

"Molly," his melodic voice sounded strained and forced through the line, "I need your help."


	22. Chapter 22

It was hot. Of course it was hot.

The man who shuddered and grunted behind him (droplets of tangy perspiration dribbling from his chest onto the blond's back), ran his rough hands down along his sides, wrapping each sweaty palm around his hips to pull him backwards roughly. It was a better angle now, he realized, feeling each delicious searing thrust into his backside; and with a short drop of his shoulders, each and every pump of his hips and every press of the man's stone-hard length tapped the tender gland nestled underneath the base of John's cock.

Jesus Christ it was _glorious_.

It was glorious in a way that surprised the latent Omega, much like the way a child is surprised when realizing a new vegetable is not nearly as disgusting to taste as it looks.

He rolled his hips, wriggling in wanton abandon when another particularly fierce push forced the man's sizeable prick deeper inside his entrance, moving his knees along the rough cotton that made up their government issued bedsheets.

John wasn't entirely sure how he'd ended up this way, and if you'd asked him earlier about his relationship with his commanding officer, he would have laughed if you told him it would eventually devolve into presenting himself and eagerly offering his sex to a man who could have him discharged, or sectioned, for his wayward behaviour.

But neither of those things had happened - and what was happening now?

Well. He was being _fucked_, that's what was happening now.

And good God, it was _glorious_.

**LINE BREAK**

It was hot. Jesus, he was hot.

His entire body shook, trembled, and he was immensely confused when he went to place his hand against his face and realized he was unable to move. It wasn't normally like him to sleep flat on his back (at least he hadn't since his army days), and he didn't usually sweat to this degree either.

He felt feverish, listless. When he opened his eyes, the world was bright and harsh, lit with the unforgiving glare that signalled industrial fluorescent lighting. Somewhere behind him (not far from his head by the sound of it) was a familiar kind of beeping - a high-pitched tone much like a pulse.

Now he was even more confused. This wasn't the bungalow, and he was definitely _not_ under the bridge or huddled away outside in the damp London air. His blurred vision did nothing to answer any of his questions either, since he was still somewhat blinded by the incandescent glare of the lights, and any movement (not matter how feeble) of his head only triggered a searing shock of pain at his temples.

Of course, this was nothing compared to the sudden fresh wave of burning, cramping agony that now assaulted his abdomen. When he tried to curl into the pain, his core muscles involuntarily flexing (a simple reflex it was, the foetal position), he was prevented from bending at the knees by the feel of rough fabric pulling at both his ankles.

Groggily and wretched, he glanced at his wrists, and then down towards his feet, taking in the fuzzy felted velcro restraints securely fastened at his joints.

_What the hell?_

He twisted his arms, testing his bonds again, every movement initiating a pounding in his head that left him both exhausted and nauseous at once. The bindings held true.

"_Fuck_…," he sputtered, frustrated and dazed, his panicked writhing leaving him panting and weak.

He couldn't seem to bring this all together in his mind. Where was he? What the_ hell _was going on? Why was he –

_Oh Jesus…_he winced_, _another gut-wrenching spasm leaving him near tears.

Jesus, _why_ was he in so much pain?

The roiling sensation in his mid-section continued, giving no indication as to when it would stop, _if_ it would stop. He stifled his groans, clenching his teeth and allowing only a small and somewhat pitiful whine to escape his lips. John's eyes prickled as tears welled on their glassy surfaces – he couldn't remember the last time he'd managed to suffer so much.

Through the haze and waves of discomfort, the Omega became aware of a sound – like smooth gears gliding over an oiled surface. In his addled mind, he likened it to the sound of a sliding glass door. But he could be mistaken, after all, he could barely sort out his immediate surroundings, let alone adequately analyse mysterious sounds.

From what he had seen (that is, before he was almost blinded by tears), the room was clean and well lit. Four white walls surrounded him, with no natural light to be seen…which probably meant no windows. He was clothed in simple delicate blue scrubs, much like one would wear in surgical suite (he patently ignored the irony in this), but had no blanket or any other covering over his person. An IV dwelled in his right arm, which was attached to long clear tubing hanging from a bag of normal saline, about half-gone. As his senses moved down further, he also became aware of an in-dwelling catheter bag affixed loosely to his left thigh, and could only imagine the bag dangling heavily from a hook on the bed.

This was getting worse and worse.

He recognized the beeping now for what it was - a monitor. Various wires and sensors flowed from his hands and chest to someplace just beyond his head and beyond his sight. He blinked once, twice, and then finally a third time, breath hitching and eyelids dislodging his tears.

He wasn't confused anymore. He knew exactly where he was (theoretically anyway), and he knew exactly who had him.

This thought was, unsurprisingly, punctuated by the low click of his heels against creamy, alabaster tiles. Maybe he wasn't wrong about the sliding door after all – it seemed he had a visitor.

**LINE BREAK**

James quickened his pace, viciously slapping the fronts of thighs against the sensitive skin where John's buttocks met the back of his legs. They reddened with the constant attention, flushed and stinging against the onslaught - his neck and back reddened as well, a mottled flush that threatened to take over his body completely.

He moaned with a voice guttural and half-stuck in his throat, wanting to scream out the name of the man and the name of his maker at the same time, but not finding the strength to manage both. The Beta's cock slipped and slid inside him, enveloped by the narrow passage that led deep inside his body, massaging and pounding against his walls in turn.

He was not being gentle, but John certainly didn't ask him to be. God, he didn't want him to be.

Breathing became entirely too difficult when he was pushed down, face first on the cot, one hot and strong hand roughly gripping the back of his head as if he somehow wanted to flee. What he did manage to inhale left his lungs in short, high-pitched, punctuated grunts.

He never felt so possessed in his life, never felt so _owned_.

"_God_," James moaned out behind him, grunting and frowning in turns (funny how facial expressions of pleasure can be so close to pain), grasping John's slick skin with burning palms, pulling him flush against his body, "fuck…_John_."

He voiced no reply, awash in sensation as he was, each bruising wave over his prostate causing his cock to thicken and pulse, swinging between his legs in a crude arc of swollen flesh.

"Jesus, you take it so good," Sholto whispered, splaying his hands across the swell of John's arse, slowing down in turns, face reddening near his climax, mouth dropping low and obscene as if starved for oxygen, "so damn _good_."

"Q-Quiet…they'll hear," the Omega panted, feeling the sweat dampened sheets wrinkle and flex beneath his clenched hands. He was close, it never did take him very long, he once learned in gender studies that Omega's (even those Unformed) were obscenely sensitive, after all. But he hadn't any prior penetrative experience to compare up until a few weeks ago; Major Sholto had been his first.

James groaned, his grip on the globes of John's arse fierce and worshipful as he pulled the man underneath him against his body once more, practically forcing John up and off the cheap cot. With his rough tongue lapping and nipping the back of his neck in turn, James tensed and thrust once more, moaning and crying out as he quivered, and released himself inside the smaller man. Riding the wave of his orgasm, Sholto's jaw clenched around the supple skin at the base of John's neck, biting and leaving vicious red teeth marks in its wake.

"_Ahhh_ – God! _Ah, ah_…" and that was the last straw for the blond. He vaguely felt the palm of James' hand pull against the spongy tip of his cock before he reached his climax, edged on by the biting and the feel of the man's rough hand in turn. He spent, adorning the government bedding with long, sticky white strings of his come, uncaring that he was making a complete mess in his pleasure.

James stayed inside him for several moments, caressing and squeezing John's softening and overly sensitive cock. The Omega laughed low in his throat, realizing it was all his fault that they couldn't relax and lay down on the cot now, or enjoy the afterglow without laying in a rapidly cooling puddle of his own semen.

"It's alright," James' voice ran over him in waves (coming down and catching his breath), simultaneously amused and exhausted, "I've got extra linens stashed in the next room."

"I almost don't care," the Omega stretched and raised his hands to grasp the man's head behind his shoulders, running his fingers through his short, spiky strands, "that was amazing. Jesus."

"Well, you probably should, you might be a little sore for the next day or so. I wasn't…entirely gentle."

"Nope, don't care. It was lovely."

James laughed outright at that, kissing the outside of one well-muscled shoulder before moving on to lavish gentle, sweet kisses onto the bite-mark at John's nape.

John trembled beneath him, shocks of sensation and delicious pain running down from his neck to the bases of his very toes. If James continued on like this, he'd barely be able to catch his breath before throwing down for another round.

**LINE BREAK**

John closed his eyes against the staccato _click click_ against the floor, turning his head away from the noise. The tiny percussive footsteps echoed in his head, become louder and louder in turns.

"I'm sorry you've been hurt," a women's voice, familiar, throaty and melodic, floated over his body. A light touch, a fingertip, ghosted against the bruised laceration on his left temple, "I'll make sure they're dealt with…harshly."

John wondered if he was supposed to be grateful, but he made no outward indication he'd heard the woman's words. Irene Adler was at the bottom of the list of people with whom he wanted to speak right now, and he didn't care if she knew she was being ignored or not.

She rolled a chair up to his stretcher, its wheels making low noises on the ground, then sat down gracefully with a whisper of clean white linen against the elegant crossing of her legs. With this movement came a wave of scent so powerful, it was all John could do not to retch with the mere strength of it.

He remembered the first time he met her, how untouchable she looked dressed all in white and surrounded by expensive things. He remembered her scent: chocolate, vanilla, patchouli…it was quite distinctive. It was just as singular now, but about more intense, a_ hundredfold _more intense. It had layers, upon layers now, base notes and heart notes, all mixing to an exquisite cocktail that swirled around John's senses.

"It's that bad already, is it?" She sounded sad then, maybe even regretful, but it was only for a moment, "you _are_ ahead of schedule. They said you might be. But don't worry, you'll get used to it. After a while, you may even begin to like it."

He tried to breathe shallowly, not entirely sure what she was referring to, but certainly not wanting this woman's stench inside him, inside his lungs.

"You might even begin to love it, like I did. You'll learn all sorts of important things with your nose now, all sorts of things you didn't realize you could learn from scent alone. It's a blessing," she leant back into the chair, regarding him with dramatically lined shimmery blue eyes, "and a curse, I suppose. It must seem that way to you right now."

"What…where am I?" His voice was weak and dry, he hated to sound cliché, but really, it was the most pressing thing on his mind right now. Well, that and how the _hell_ he was going to get out of here…or how he was going to manage, since he mostly felt like sleeping, and vomiting – not at the same time though, thankfully.

"That's not really important. I suppose you could say the most important question is _what_ are you. Though, I didn't expect that to be your first question, so I'm not disappointed after all."

With a swallow, John slowly brought his head round, opening his reddened eyes to finally take in the woman who'd orchestrated all of this. She looked much the same: perfect, distinctive, untouchable, eyes glinting with depthless intelligence and shrewdness. If she and Sherlock were to ever get together, they'd be quite the pair –

No, strike that, full stop. He would _never_ let these two meet. Not if he could help it.

"Why me?" And really wasn't that the pivotal question? He was no one, after all.

"I bet you've asked yourself that at least a hundred times now," she smiled, amused, "and I suppose I could wax poetic about your service, your history, or even your unfortunate circumstances. But really, it all comes down to one thing that happened to be out of your control entirely - your genetic code."

He twitched on the stretcher, flexing his arms, even though he knew it was fruitless. The fever inside his body raged, chilling and singeing his skin in tandem.

"_Baskerville_," he whispered absently, closing his eyes and remembering the video from what seemed like so long ago. Of course they had known all of this beforehand, but they had no clue as to the results, as to what _really_ happened after that video feed went blank.

"Yes, you and your Detective did your homework," she flashed a toothy smile, predatory, when John opened his eyes and whipped his head towards her with a wince, "yes, of course I knew about him. One doesn't make their fortune in London, or misbehaving as I do without rubbing elbows with Sherlock Holmes."

"Jesus, just…stop - stop _playing_ and tell me what you've done," his patience was wearing thin, and if he was to die here (God, he hoped he was wrong about that), then so be it. He just needed to know what it was all for, and why all the other young latent Omegas had to die as well.

Irene sighed dramatically, curving one delicate ankle over another, coal black heels (bearing strikingly red soles) making a stark contrast to the sterile whiteness of the room.

"You poor thing, so eager for answers. I will tell you, in time, when you've settled a bit more and feeling better," she ran her had down the IV pump, pushing a grey button before standing and running a cool hand down John's damp neck, "you're lucky. I'm not usually so accommodating."

She leant forward and placed a red-tinged kiss on his right temple, lingering to inhale the smell of him, broken and shivering on the stretcher. She seemed to like what she found.

"It won't be long now, darling. I'll be back soon."

He watched her slender figure fade away, warmth emanating from his IV, and some mystery medication slowly infusing through his veins and up his arm. His head began to swim, his feverish shivering fading, and it wasn't long before the pleasant call of sleep grasped his mind, pulling him into its turbid depths.

**LINE BREAK**

"Did I ever tell you about my daughter, Emily?"

John merely grunted and continued to lay comfortably, eyes closed, soaking up the heat and aftermath of their energetic (though most certainly ill-advised) and quite satisfying romp an hour previous.

"She was a latent Omega, like you."

He did open his eyes now, turning to watch the older man next to him, running warm fingers over his well-muscled side. "Oh?" He did so love the languid, almost loving, moments after their coupling. He could almost convince himself that James loved him, when they laid together like this.

"We adopted her when she was ten. Sophie and I had been trying for years at that point, but honestly, I think eventually we were both too tired to try and continue having one of our own, biologically. It was exhausting in every way possible – physically, emotionally, monetarily…"

"Why did you pick her?"

"Well, she was beautiful for one - coppery hair, lovely dark eyes, always smiling. We couldn't resist. We didn't give a damn about her gender status, of course, and it took us several years, but when she was finally ours, I like to think we were all happy."

John ran his gaze over the small room, his sight coming to rest on the metal desk and the picture frame displaying James and a widely smiling brunette female (not Emily then). He knew James was married when this all started, and he knew he should've taken the high road and nipped this all in the bud when he found out. But, the truth of the matter was, he loved James (he was almost certain he did, anyway), though he was fairly positive he would _never_ tell the man.

Major Sholto made him feel more loved, more accepted, and more wanted than any half-naked sexual encounter he'd had in secondary school, or Uni, or in the Army thus far. He knew this entire situation was precarious, and highly inappropriate, but he didn't have the minerals to stop it now.

But he had never seen a picture of Emily, and James had never brought her up before now. The other man's tone was wistful, tinged with regret. John almost didn't want to ask, but he did.

"What happened to her?"

Sholto covered his eyes for a moment, leaning away from John to lay flat on his back, the thumb and index finger of his right hand rubbing over his eyes.

"When it came time to go through secondary puberty, nothing happened. When all of her friends starting maturing and presenting, she was left behind. I'm sure you can imagine how she felt."

Of course John could imagine, he could _still_ imagine. It wasn't unlike how he felt today, even on a daily basis. It was like he was a part of this world, but still somehow outside of it.

"You know I can."

James moved his hand from his eyes and traced John's jaw, his calloused finger tripping over the smallest bits of stubble.

"We took her to see a specialist who prescribed the Formation treatment. We were all so relieved it would be that easy…or so we thought. Should've known really."

The Omega reached over with his own right hand and laced his fingers through James', gripping his hand tight, willing to give comfort to this man who was obviously sharing some difficult information about his past. He remained quiet.

"She was allergic, you know. The first injection cause hives to cover almost her entire body, we weren't sure if it was the treatment at the time, so we continued. The second injection almost killed her. After that, we had to stop."

John had heard a story or two once, of latents being allergic to the injections used to stimulate secondary puberty. It was rare, but it existed.

"She was crushed. She wouldn't talk to us, and became withdrawn, depressed. We told her we loved her no matter what. She was our little girl, it didn't matter to us." James pleaded with John, beseeching him watery blue eyes.

The blond lifted their clasped hands and brought his lips to the back of James' hand. He kept them there, soft, soothing, merely brushing his back and forth in a whisper of a kiss.

"She killed herself when she was eighteen…pills."

The younger man sighed, rubbing James' hand against the back of his own cheek, closing his eyes against the feeling of the warm skin on his own. John wasn't entirely surprised, he knew this story was going somewhere, but he had hoped it wouldn't be down this road. Though, it wasn't news that the suicide rate of latent Omegas was much higher than any of the other genders. He couldn't say he had never thought of it himself, not really. Not yet.

"We…Sophie and I, we didn't handle it well. We thought she was okay, we had taken her to therapists, she seemed better after that and happy to be graduating and going to Uni to be a Gender Rights Barrister. We just – we didn't –"

"It wasn't your fault James."

"We couldn't save her; _I_ couldn't save her, my own little girl."

John felt flushed, uncomfortable, and emotionally compromised in front of this man who was spilling his own soul.

"I promised I would never let that happen again."

"You can't protect everyone, latents or not."

The other man sighed, eyes boring up and into the ceiling. He squeezed their clasped hands and cleared his throat, looking hesitant.

"I…I'm moving you off of the mobile medic unit."

John blinked, balking, his expression turning from warm comfort to angry surprise.

"You're _what?!_" He couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

"I want you here on the base, in the mobile hospital, where it's safer for you."

"Where it's_ safer_…," he trailed off, shocked beyond belief. John released his commanding officer's hand and leapt off the cot, grabbing his uniform in an astonished daze. He dressed hastily, "and under _whose_ authority did you make this decision?"

James sat up, making sure not to jostle the blanket they'd laid down to cover John's mess from earlier, "it was my own. I don't want you out there…I – I can't stand it, the thought of you there in the thick of it. I need you safe."

"You need me…," he couldn't say any more, the rage and disbelief closing off his throat momentarily, cinching his chest and tightening his mouth so much as to be nearly painful.

"I am _not_ your child, James. I am not someone to be _protected_ and _coddled_. _How dare you!_"

"Please John…"

"No! Go back home to your wife, do what you want, fuck someone else. But don't you _ever_ think that I can't take care of myself!"

"John…"

A high-pitched keening alarm broke through their argument, echoing through the compound and startling both men. It meant gunfire, mortar shells, fighting…and close.

John set his jaw and grabbed his clothes, anxiously making himself presentable. James moved off the bed hurriedly, wrapping the blanket around his lower half and not bothering with his pants.

"Don't go. You don't have to, you're not on shift," James pleaded, something unmentionable in his eyes. It could have been distress, it _could_ have been love, but John was done with all that now.

"They need me. It's my _job_."

"You think you have to do this, but you don't. John, I know how you are, you're hoping it'll be the war that kills you. I've seen it in your eyes, I saw it in Emily's eyes too before I knew what it was. It won't be."

John took a few steps towards the door, before stopping and glancing behind him.

"Don't pretend you know a thing about me and what I've been through, _Major Sholto_."

"John, please…"

"Goodbye James," John buttoned up his over-shirt and head out the door, the alarm barely registering over the pounding and rushing of blood through his ears.


	23. Chapter 23

**I don't leave too many notes, but I want to say thank you to everyone who has favorited and followed this story. I love writing it and I love reading all of your comments! You are all the best! - Blue**

Sherlock ran a frantic hand through his curls, gripping and pulling the wayward strands with a frustrated energy. He didn't seem to realize his sable locks already stood out in dramatic disarray; and Molly mused whether he was purposefully doing an historically accurate Einstein impersonation, or had quite inadvertently electrocuted himself sometime within the last fifteen minutes.

She stifled a small smile, quickly redirecting her mind on to more important matters: John, abduction, dead body, right…no time to get side-tracked by the eminently handsome (though regrettably untouchable) apex Alpha beside her.

It didn't help that the very air around the lab practically churned and roiled with his scent. It should be illegal, or it should be bottled up and sold by some chiclet-toothed peddler on Portobello Road, either way, to say that the man smelled positively _provocative _would be a gross understatement. He oozed sexuality like –

"Stop it, Molly. Stop…" he waved one long-fingered hand dramatically near her face, "stop mooning about." Sherlock's rumbling baritone admonished, grabbing her attention and ridding her almost instantly of impure (and horribly inappropriate) daydreams, "and please do your job. Need I remind you what's at stake here?"

She didn't need reminding, she'd seen the way Sherlock had looked at the (currently missing) latent Omega when they both first visited her lab, both hungry and fascinated at the same time. It'd only taken one encounter with the two to realize Sherlock was thoroughly smitten with the older blond.

Sherlock didn't bother to remove his gaze from the cylindrical eyepieces of the microscope and gauge her reaction. It was more than clear to him that she carried a torch for him the size of the London Eye, and almost as dreadfully dull in its regard. He deemed it nearly the same as the attraction itself, novel and quite puzzling at first, then repetitive and boring upon further observation. To anyone else, Sherlock's clipped comment might have seemed rude or dismissive, but having worked with the man for more than two years, to Molly, it was more of the same.

She flushed unattractively, fiddling with a loosened bit of mousy hair and rearranging the stack of files before her into a more manageable queue.

"Erm, right, um…you know I've already looked over these files Sherlock. What exactly am I meant to find this time?"

He drew in a deep breath, as if steeling himself before being forced to state the painfully obvious.

"The victims of the study were all killed elsewhere and then dumped at, as of yet, unrelated areas. Some of the wounds vary, but hint to a kind of escalation," he swivelled in his chair and rifled through the first of the files, pulling out a large glossy photo of one of the first victims associated with the latent Omega murders, "here, this young man Scott Andrews…he met his final end through potassium injection – by the way thank you for that Molly, excellent work there – and it was only after his death that he had a vaginal hysterectomy. The next man here," another photo flopped on top of the next, "the same. Although this time there are also incisions near both of his kidneys, leading to removal of his adrenal glands; and so on and so forth. Each new murder built on the one previously until we have Jimmy Price. He had a full abdominal hysterectomy, removal of his adrenal glands, various lymph nodes, and excessive damage to his pituitary gland."

Molly surveyed the eight glossy snapshots of the victims, each murder captured in full colour and gloriously morbid detail. Just because she did this every day, didn't make looking at these unfortunates any easier.

"We can safely assume, at this point in time, that these have been performed by the same person," Sherlock continued, "or _persons_. But of course, if you really look at the dumping grounds, you'd realize there is a significant lack of blood. I noticed this right away, of course, but it wasn't until the death of the man before Jimmy Price that I started to notice a real pattern to the deaths. So, none of them were killed there, obvious. I am certain if we find out _where_ they were killed, we will find John."

"If he's still alive," Molly stated almost absently, so low as to be almost under her breath.

Sherlock flicked his head towards her then, broadcasting a look that was absolutely scathing, and she regretted her hasty words almost immediately. With a thoughtful sigh, she attempted another tried and true avenue of investigation.

"Well…have you checked the tyre tracks? Can you cross-reference those against vehicles in the area? Maybe you can narrow down the make of the car and start with that?"

Sherlock surveyed her with a narrow gaze, moving the glossies to show various snapshots of several of the crime scene and their accompanying tyre tracks.

"You've been watching too much American crime television Miss Hooper. These are Goodyear Efficientgrip SUV tyres, one of the most common tyre brands for sport utility vehicles in the UK. That would leave us with a suspect pool of tens of thousands, considering how popular that style of vehicle is nowadays. These tyres also come in an extra-large size and with options for off-roading as well. At this particular crime scene," he moved the stack of photos to the right, isolating one particularly lurid picture, "the tyres were especially clean, ridiculously so, probably because they were new, or only lightly used. The traces of dirt and mud weren't especially helpful, but only served to implicate the surrounding areas within a 50 mile radius," he muttered something about soil compositions then, diatoms and the like, before continuing on, "the only _useful_ information gleaned from them is that they _might_ be from the same vehicle, but that's not really much to be going on now is it?"

Molly chewed her lower lip, feeling a stray bit of chapped skin catch between her teeth. She was trying to be helpful, she was - quite desperately so - but it was disheartening to find herself hopelessly stymied at every turn. She wondered momentarily if this is what Sherlock must also feel like right now…except, maybe a hundred times worse.

The doors to the lab opened just then, emitting a loud squeak as Detective Inspector Lestrade (appearing exhausted and ruggedly handsome as always) made his entrance. He was dishevelled, as he was wont to be; and looked to be on the wrong side of about five strong cups of coffee, and then some.

"Oi, Sherlock," he interrupted, with quite an apologetic eye for Molly (who flushed once again), "I have those printouts you wanted, the uh…," he shuffled through a thick stack of rolled papers he clenched in his hand, "pictures from John's mobile? It wasn't easy. Anderson and Donovan wanted first crack at them, had to fight them off like a pack of bloody wolves!"

Sherlock immediately twirled away from the table with a dancer's grace. In anyone else it would have looked affected, but with Sherlock, well, it looked completely natural.

"Ah, Grant! Excellent!"

"Greg."

"Hm?" Sherlock queried absently, only having eyes for the bunched printouts gripped tightly in the policeman's hand.

"It's Greg."

"Greg? No. Sorry don't know him, but he sounds terribly dull," the Alpha stalked towards the DI, putting his right hand out in front, expecting the other man to pass over the evidence as requested.

"Look here, _my_ name is Greg you giant _twat_, and I'm already doing you a big favour by letting you take a look at these alright? It's bad enough Donovan saw you try and steal the mobile at the crime scene."

Sherlock silently cursed the curly haired woman; how exactly she chose that moment to use her pitiful powers of observation was beyond him. She and Lestrade had both caught up with him before he managed to hail a taxi, and though he threatened to hand over the mobile over his cold, dismembered body, neither of the police officers looked particularly concerned.

"I wasn't _stealing_ it, it was given to me - quite a shock that your team managed to miss such an important piece of evidence," the Alpha favoured Lestrade with a rather scathing look.

Molly sniffled uncomfortably at the side table, slowly picking through the autopsy reports. She didn't really have anything to add, and was content to just let the two gentlemen argue it out. Emotions were high right now, and it wasn't hard to see that Sherlock was teetering on a knife's edge.

"Right," Greg continued, ignoring Sherlock's less than stellar attitude (which wasn't all that different from how he was normally), "you're allowed one day before I have to hand these back over to my own team, got it?"

The papers flopped down on the table, fanning out slightly with the movement.

"Phone me if you find anything."

Sherlock grunted, a noncommittal shrug accompanying the sound as he moved away to peer down the bright cylinders of the microscope once more.

"I mean it Sherlock, you mess this up and it's back to housebreaking and poor old ladies with stolen purses, yeah?"

"Yes, _yes_, alright. I'll keep you informed, God help us all."

Molly had eventually meandered over to the stack of papers left by Lestrade. She flattened her small hand against the slightly rolled pages, taking in various snippets and bits of information. Lestrade mentioned these had been taken from John's mobile, which was surprising because they looked to be of decent quality.

It was not automatically clear as to how these would be of use. The first few snapshots seemed to be of an inventory report of sorts: reams of paper, staples, files, desk chairs, cotton balls, etc. It all read as unremarkable and rather standard for an office building or medical suite.

Lestrade took one last pleading glance at Molly, who was absorbed in the stack of papers, and hesitated. For a moment, he seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but instead he sighed and stuffed his hands in his coat, striding out of the lab and into the cool London afternoon. Neither of the other two remarked on his abrupt exit.

"John took those? When?" Molly inquired when she finally noticed they were both alone once more. She abandoned the printouts for a moment to swiftly enter a few commands into her state of the art computer, which was currently running analyses of what paltry samples of DNA they'd managed to salvage from the waxy bits of Lipsyl stuck to the cigarette found at the scene of John's kidnapping.

"He took them yesterday, judging by the timestamp on his mobile, when he had his last appointment at the study. Though I'm not exactly sure as to what process of logic he used when deciding what documents to actually photograph."

"Most of it doesn't look very important…maybe he was trying to take as many as possible? You know, kind of, grab as much info as he could? Maybe he was in a hurry. I seriously doubt that kind of place just left their records laying around for just anyone to see." Satisfied that the DNA search was going well, she returned to scrutinizing the papers.

The Alpha paused for a moment, finally lifting his tourmaline gaze from the brightly lit lenses of the scope. One thick, lanky curl half-obscured his right eye before he turned and regarded Molly with an almost zealous expression.

"Molly, I already knew you were moderately intelligent, but even _I_ am surprised at your insights sometimes."

The oft-reserved Omega flushed quite vividly (she really could not get her blushing under control today), immediately freezing and unable to hide the wide smile that threatened to cramp her cheek muscles, "you - you…think, you said – you –"

Poor Molly's brain had short-circuited spectacularly.

Sherlock continued, oblivious to Molly's stuttering and cerebral shutdown.

"We can – or I can – deduce from John's own actions that he found himself alone, in a place that not many people were privy too. Perhaps there was a situation, something unexpected, and he chose to take advantage. You can tell by the multitude of photos, practically dozens, that he was taking as many as he could without any regard as to what information they contained – my clever, clever John."

Sherlock's mouth twitched, then he rifled through the papers, spreading then all out one by one, till each glinting surface of the brushed metal table was covered.

"We need to go over each and every photo in detail, Molly," he snapped, startling the woman and kicking her neurons back on-line, "Slight change of plan. I need to you to continue the analysis of the Lipsyl on the cigarette butt, if we're lucky - if we're very, very lucky - it might lead us to our killer."

"As for me," the brunet swung off his jacket in one sensuous arc, rolling up his silk shirtsleeves immediately afterwards, "I think it would be faster if I inspected and broke-down the files and photos on my own. No offense, but obviously you do not have the memory and cross-referencing skills needed for this situation."

Molly blinked at that, but, strangely, she couldn't find it in herself to be insulted.

**LINE BREAK**

It had been hours. Hours and hours of toner receipts, syringe recalls, carpet cleanings, and insipid transcripts of customer service representatives arguing over whether or not their phone messaging system was to blame for automated menu malfunctions or if the servers were on the fritz.

Sherlock flipped over another page, pressing it down against the growing stack with probably more force than needed. The next leaflet consisted of bits of rectangular food receipts all stapled to one piece of paper. Really, their bookkeeping was abominable - as if it was really needed to keep each and every take-out receipt, honestly.

"Sherlock," Molly interrupted, the curved lines of her lips lifting in an apologetic bow, "would you like some coffee? It's awful, I know…only, it's been hours, in fact…it's been, it's half eleven, I'm exhausted."

Sherlock checked his mobile probably for the first time since entering the lab. It had been almost fifteen hours since he'd come across the crime scene, and he'd yet to hear back from his brother. In fact, the last time he'd laid eyes on his rotund relative was to watch his backside as it waddled out of the lab. He'd mentioned something about checking the CCTV in that area. Probably a dead end that, since that particular part of London was notorious for blind spots, funding being what it was. The British Government had also mentioned visiting the study itself, but that was also quite a longshot, considering there was little chance it even still _existed_ in the Highlands Centre anymore.

"I guess I'll just…get my own then." She finished lamely once she received no response, wrapping up the multitude of files and rearranging them into some semblance of order. When she came across a small stack of chemical reports, she paused, eyes widening.

"Sherlock…"

"No Molly, not now. I don't want any of that percolated swill you call _coffee_."

She pursed her thin lips, re-straightening her mussy braid over her shoulder and plopping down several wrinkled sheets of paper down in front of the rumpled and stroppy apex Alpha.

"Forget the coffee; I think…well, I might be on to something."

This caught Sherlock's attention, and it took a moment for the Omega woman to collect her wits about her when she was hit with the full brunt of Sherlock's iridescent regard.

"Look, you know one of the many things we make sure to document in any post-mortem is the last contents of their stomach. It doesn't always lead to much, but it's required. Now…look here…"

She grasped the sheaf of paper with the faded receipts, some of them dated as old as several months ago, and some of them as recent as a few days.

"There's quite a variety here: Chinese, Thai, Indian, Fish and Chips…but if you look at the autopsy reports and what remained in their stomachs," a bit more paper shuffling and gathering, "look, Indian, Thai…"

She trailed off at that, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes.

Of course, it might not mean anything but –

Sherlock brought both his hands in front of his face abruptly, fingers twitching, "Wait – wait a moment. Stop talking. Just stop talking full stop!"

Molly looked around the brightly lit lab, wondering if he was addressing her, "I – I wasn't…"

He twirled on Molly, now running his hands through his hair for about the fifteenth time that hour.

"I said stop _thinking_ Molly! Do I have to spell it out for you?"

The mousy haired female licked her lips in frustration, crossing her arms and regarding the other man with a glare that could smoulder bones.

"Look here, a receipt for the Jade Garden. A small place located centrally but only willing to deliver to within a two mile radius. I saved one of their more unfortunate busboys from an ASBO last summer. Our last victim, Mr. Price, his last meal was Peking Duck. Rather indulgent but that particular establishment is known for their duck. And here…Mr. Topham, he was found before Jimmy, and appeared to have eaten quite a large amount of Indian food, and here we have a receipt for Ruchi Palace dated not long from before we found the body. My housekeeper - well, landlady - is quite partial to their Goat Vindaloo. However, they do not deliver, they are take-out only."

"So, so you think maybe…" Molly trailed off, caught in the spell of Sherlock's uncanny recall and whirlwind thought process.

"If you were to go to most of these establishments documented here, you'd probably find their delivery area quite limited, or that they do not deliver at all. For London, this is normal, not unusual at all, but for our investigation, it's quite telling. But what exactly does it _mean_, Molly?"

She smiled brightly, excited, know that the ball was in her court and relishing the chance to impress the brunet, "It could mean that wherever they held these men, killed them even, is not far from these restaurants at all. They had to feed their captives, of course, but didn't want to go far, or have many know of their exact location."

"Precisely!" Sherlock barked, and Molly could only bask in his praise for a moment before he continued, "we need to pinpoint each and every place listed here and draw up an area map of central London. They must intersect at some point, and that will give us an adequate search area. It's not a complete breakthrough, but it's a start."

Both Sherlock and Molly shared a quiet moment, smiling at each other. The scent emanating from Sherlock was one of anticipation, spicy, full of overt strength and purpose. It made her head spin, and while she knew she didn't have a snowball's chance, she knew there wasn't much she wouldn't do for this man.

Their own personal reveries were interrupted by a quiet _ding_, not far off from behind Molly. She swung her head round at the sound, messy braid flopping against her back.

"Oh my God," she breathed, "we…have a result. A suspect, Sherlock! _Sebastian Moran_."

Sherlock appeared over her shoulder, glaring at the computer screen, taking in the military shot of a dangerous looking man pasted all over Molly's machine. He quickly memorised his face, the facial scar, the scowl, the shortly cropped blond hair (similar to John actually, and wasn't _that_ a painful thought), the stiff bearing, and – most telling of all – the complete lack of any background information included with the picture.

"D-do you think it's him? Do you think he's our killer?" Molly stumbled over her words, completely gobsmacked they'd found any match to the DNA at all. It must have been a one in a billion chance.

"It's hard to say, we only know that his DNA was on that cigarette and that he is involved. How very unfortunate that there doesn't seem to be any information on him at all," his voice was sarcastic, knowing, "no family history, no military history, although clearly judging by his clothing this man was enlisted at some point. No criminal or arrest record…"

Molly quickly began printing out all the information included in their search query, making sure they had hardcopies – she really, truly, couldn't believe their luck.

Meanwhile, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and rapidly punched in a series of numbers against the touchscreen. When the mobile silently began to ring, and a familiar voice answered, he plastered a forced smile across his handsome face and spoke with insincere goodwill:

"Hell_o_ brother dear, how _are_ you?"


	24. Chapter 24

The world stretched, thin and pliable like ribbon, as warped and strange as images caught on a distorted tape recording.

It was bright and blazing in one moment, then dim and cold the next.

He shivered.

He simmered in his own sweat.

Sometimes, he thought, he saw Dr. Adler (Irene) sitting next to him primly, legs crossed and ankles pleasingly tilted towards the floor. Sometimes, he thought, he could feel her cool hand rub the lightly haired and overly sensitive stretch of belly just above his groin, as if he were an ill animal in need of soothing. He heard sweet and cooing sounds from her mouth that he thought were words, but they were perverted and backwards, unintelligible.

Time was a wretched, dishonest and supple thing.

He succumbed to the dimness, once more falling into the trench, as dark and bottomless as his fevered dreams.

* * *

"Must we keep him so sedated? How are we to know if the process is complete? It is…very different this time," Dr. Frankland peered through the glass wall, one hand resting proprietorially upon the plane, as if itching to break through into its sacred and protected space.

Irene stood next to him, smaller, but only in stature. Her tenacious eyes noticed the way the man leant against the glass, how his breath condensed at the surface, at once obscuring the object of his desire and his own greedy reflection.

"It will be completed soon," she assured, laying a gentling touch against the starched knit of his lab coat, "I will know it and he will know it. They will be able to smell it, all of the others."

He wrenched his gaze away from the glass, though it seemed to pain him in doing so, and favoured the woman with an accusing eye.

"You talk to me of scents? Really, Irene…but…you promised this time, should you succeed, you would let me have him. You _promised!_"

Dr. Adler barely managed to hold in an irritated sigh.

"I know what I promised, but you must know the chances were…astronomical. Sebastian was already getting antsy, wanting to end everything _again_," she laid particular emphasis on that last word, setting it apart with a show of her teeth and roll of her eyes, "he always was so difficult to work with – New York, Edinburgh, and now here. I was quite ready to start packing, until this particularly fine specimen fell in our lap."

"I thought you'd cut ties to Sebastian ages ago? You called him a loose cannon, or something else overly dramatic."

"Oh, I'm not talking about Sebastian _Moran_," she laughed, moving away from the glass and away from the twitching and suffering visage of one John Watson, "I'm talking about that fool Wilkes."

"Ah," he turned his gaze back to the small man behind the glass, licking his bottom lip in the absent way that sometimes people do.

"Moran will always be useful – in his own way. I keep him around for just that purpose, you realize."

"But you promised, Irene, when we agreed to all this. You said – you said if I let you do this, use my research, try again and perfect the process, then I could have them for my own purposes," the hand against the glass clenched, forming a tight fist as the timbre of his voice took on a whinging, wheedling edge.

"Hush now," she placated, gently smoothing her finely manicured hand over his trembling fist and slowly pulling it away from the clear barrier that separated the man from his prize, "I didn't say you couldn't have him…after a fashion."

Dr. Frankland's lips pressed together, unconvinced, his feverish eyes darting between Irene and the blond trapped behind the glass.

"Really though," she was quickly losing her patience now, "what would you do with him anyway? Cut him up? Pickle his gonads for posterity? We both know you are not interested in his _charms_, such as they are now, being almost a perfect neutral Beta."

The man sighed with a great exhalation of overly warm, coffee-laced breath, then:

"It's not about sex, Irene," he spat, disgusted, "why do you always think it's about _sex?_"

She scoffed, releasing his grip and crossing her arms across her chest, diaphanous emerald green blouse glinting in the light. In her experience (and she had had a great _many_ experiences) it was _always _about sex.

"It's about science, Irene, it's about discovery and creating something new. He's unique, like you, and – and I couldn't have you."

"You didn't create us, mind. You merely took what already existed and coaxed it to the surface, quite imperfectly, as I do remember," she touched a small white button on a wall adjacent to the glass and a current of palpable energy ran though the clear barrier, turning it instantly opaque, "it was horridly painful. You're lucky I didn't find you in your sleep and strangle you afterwards. I volunteered to be Formed, _not_ to be tortured."

Dr. Frankland tried not to outright whimper as the wall turned cloudy, eclipsing John from his covetous gaze.

"I've apologized for that more times than I care to remember, what more can I do?"

Irene smiled - and one might have called it predatory, or shark-like. The adjective really didn't matter, as the mere act of the thing brought to mind wild creatures that could catch a person and swallow them whole.

"I need him first, for…my own purposes."

"Your own purposes?"

"Yes. Are you very surprised? I do have my own goals in life of course, now that everything has been so different." She neglected to mention how very different life for her had become. Irene Adler had always had a predilection for misbehaving, but it had been amusing (to say the least) to find out just exactly how much bad behaviour she could get away with now that she had so much…power, for want of a better word.

She could feel it in the slant of a person's gaze, the uneven levelling of their shoulders, and the scent a person emitted when they began salivating. She found she could control it, the pheromones, the heats, well – everything; and though she preferred women, she found it wasn't a great chore to make herself available to men as well. But now, now that there were two of them, man and woman, how easy and perfect would it be?

Eve and Adam - Irene and John.

Together, they could rule the world, the perfect pair that they were.

The dictionary and encyclopaedias of this age would have to change their definition of genetic perfection if they continued to use the apex Alpha as its example. The vertex Omega, when unleashed upon the world, would blow everyone away, or to bring them to their knees…Irene was happy with both scenarios.

"What makes you think he'll do anything you want?" Robert Frankland asked, looking dubious and petulant, finally moving away from the solid wall and giving her his full attention.

"Because," and here she paused, Dr. Frankland had previously called her dramatic, and most of the time he was quite right, "I know what he likes."

* * *

When the fever finally broke, John was huddled into himself, curled into a foetal position and facing the far wall. It had come in barely comprehensible waves, his consciousness, each push and pull of his mind growing stronger until he opened his eyes to the bright glare of unnatural lighting.

He was aware, to a certain extent that time had passed, though he had no idea how long.

He was also aware, through some strange fundamental measure of his being, that he was irrevocably changed. He was unrestrained, his nausea was gone, his headache and other various pains – a mere unpleasant memory

His entire body hummed with an undercurrent of energy and arousal that was impossible to ignore. Muscles twitched that formerly felt dormant (or non-existent), his mind drifted to thoughts of carnality and passion, something he'd been able to easily keep in check before. Flushing, he felt a warm bit of wetness make itself known in the snug crease of his backside.

It wasn't a feeling that was completely alien to the latent Omega, after all, his adrenal glands created enough sex hormones for him to have passible lubrication while aroused – but it was unusual for him to feel his own viscous slick while not experiencing any kind of outward, obvious sexual provocation.

He mused on this a moment, taking a bit to centre himself in the white room and gather his thoughts, now clear and purposeful.

_Right_.

Regardless of what this new development meant (and John was _quite_ sure if he took long enough it would be easy to puzzle it out), he had more important things to focus on. He gathered a simple list in his mind, and it contained only three things:

Escape.

Justice.

Sherlock.

Exactly in that order.

When he allowed the overwhelming emotional impact of Marcus' death to finally wash over his psyche, it was paralyzing. The Alpha had never been perfect (permanently injured as he was), he had never tried to _be_ perfect, but in the end he couldn't help what he was.

John needed a plan to avenge his death, and that included finding the cigarette smoking bastard that killed him and putting him down like the emotionless, useless dog that he was. John wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to make it last for the man's own suffering, or make it quick, for John's own satisfaction.

Either way, it would be remarkably final - and when the time came for his heart to push that final last 60 or 70 millilitres of blood through its chambers, that bastard would know exactly why John couldn't allow it to pump any more. His days of breathing, and sweating, and laughing, and _shitting_ were over – and the knowledge of it would be clear in the final dilation of his pupils as he pulled in his last cursed breath.

This vengeful thought was a balm to the small Omega, folded in on the cot as he was, trying to gather his purpose and find himself in his surroundings. In the background he realized, it was quiet. There was no beeping, no high-pitched continuous tone or any machine-like sounding noises at all. He was unhooked, as it were, free of the monitors that were previously attached, and for that he was immensely grateful. The last few moments of emotional upheaval would have certainly shown in his respiration and heart rate, alerting anyone who was watching that not only was he awake, but quite upset as well.

He allowed himself a moment, taking a quiet mental inventory of his faculties before forming a rudimentary plan. All of his senses felt itchy and hyper-aware. His skin was stretched tight, warm and thick over his joints, as if aching for movement but hesitant at the same time.

He allowed himself a small stretch, relaxing his posture and letting his arms and legs go long and lax.

Rapture.

Tiny (soul-bending, mind-altering) eruptions of pleasure lanced through his body, originating at every previously flexed joint and continuously expressing small punctuations of bliss with every minute contraction.

_Jesus._ What had they done to him? He could hazard a guess, but would he be right?

A wave of warmth flushed through the entrance to his anus, causing a small throb of lubrication to gush quite obviously (and embarrassingly) through his thin, powder blue scrubs.

_Fuck_, he thought, closing his eyes in instant mortification, _fuck!_

What a time for something like this. In all the ways in his life his body had betrayed him; he never thought now would be the time it would decide to add another hash-mark onto its growing list. He'd never had this problem before, this strange kind of – of incontinence, so to speak.

He had heard about it, of course, during Uni and in the Army, when Formed Omega friends of his talked of…

…heat.

When they talked of heat - o_h Jesus, oh Christ, oh God_.

Had they done it then? Had they succeeded?

When he'd been insensate with agony, filled with fear and delirious, had they _actually_ managed to make him full Omega.

The thought alone was mind boggling, impossible. He knew the odds. He even remembered the low-quality, grainy video showing Irene seizing and slobbering all over herself days ago. Could it have happened? Was it the only explanation for how he felt, the unexpected, sensuous pleasure and unwanted (barely mentionable) excretions?

He didn't know if he could handle the full implications of this right now, the unexpected completion of gender, when he heard the soft susurrus of metal sliding on more, carefully oiled metal.

"Lunchtime," it was pronounced, slightly muffled, a man's voice trumpeted behind him.

It was as unfamiliar, this sudden intrusion on his silence, as it was the storm of hormones rioting through his bloodstream. He didn't allow himself to move, afraid he'd given himself away after all.

A soft grinding sound alighted near his cot, accompanied by the smell of freshly cooked food. The fragrance and odours of the shepherd's pie rioted against his senses. He could smell _where_ the beef was from, _who_ grew the peas, and from what exact highland cow the butter in the crust was from.

It was too, too much. Nauseating.

But he swallowed, breathing lightly through his mouth and focussing now on another, altogether different scent. The man behind him was an Alpha; it was perfectly clear in the wash of pheromones that skittered over his nostrils. He was unbound, young, and broadcasting his lustful (though purposefully dampened) intentions towards the Omega. Had the food been more heavily spiced, John might have missed it. But as it was, it was perfectly clear that this man, if he had the chance, would be perfectly happy to fuck John, against the glass or tiled wall, and have little to no regrets afterward.

A more solid plan formed in his mind.

Behind him, the man cleared his throat, irritated.

"C'mon pretty, Doctors say you have to keep up your energy."

John then stretched his slight frame, letting the slightly moistened seat of his pants flex and strain against his buttocks in a subtle but impactful invitation. _Jesus Christ_, he really didn't have to fake it, he felt _amazing_. John might need to rethink not taking this man up on his lewd and inappropriate fantasy.

Another wave of scent pushed through the air as the man inhaled deeply and John finally rolled over to regard him with a heavily lidded gaze.

"Is it true?" The blond said, slowly rolling on his belly and sliding his knees underneath him, almost mimicking the classic presentation pose so associated with good little Omegas. He heard rather than saw the man's respiration rate increase, his gaze now artfully downcast and submissive.

"Wh-what?"

"Do you think I'm pretty?"

A noise caught in the other man's throat, a short, gurgling thing that humans only make when truly surprised or absolutely speechless. His eyes shot to John's backside, taking in the roundness of the muscles, the dampened scrubs already darkening with more delicious smelling fluid.

"N-no!" He managed in a surprising outburst of self-control, "th-they said you would be hard to resist. But I – I can't." He clapped both his hands over his nose and mouth, backing away a few steps.

Well. That was unfortunate.

John sniffed, very much the rejected lover, and rolled over onto his back. There, he ground his cheeks into the slim mattress of the cot, revelling in the new bursts of sensation. He affected a whimper, low in the base of his throat, running one hand down the sweat-lined seams of his clothing and then down to the respectable (if smaller than an Alpha's) bulge that outlined his cock. He was hard, God help him, and tried to remind himself that a quick fuck wasn't actually what he wanted…that he had actual goals in mind.

But it was difficult because this all-encompassing _want_ and _need_ was just so new, and so…so, _good_.

He turned his indigo gaze back upon the young man, noting his brown hair (fashionably shaggy), dark eyes (just this side of Earl Grey), the glint of a dangerously well-maintained firearm at his belt (he always did like dangerous), and thought, just for a moment mind, maybe he _could_ fuck John against the virgin-white tiled wall of this room. Maybe he _could_ take him and _knot_ him and _bite_ him and cover his back in painful impact bruises - and _maybe_ John would love it and bang his head against the wall and bite his lip until he spasmed and came and made a mess of the perfectly clean floor. Maybe he wouldn't stop there but beg for a go again and _writhe_ and _cry_ and _scream_ for more.

He entertained this very thought as he grabbed his prick with a hungry hand, unconsciously bucking up into his own palm, mouth falling open in ecstasy.

"Oh_ Jesus_," he moaned, mouthing an unknown word or two in silence before pulling his cock three or so times, losing himself with each upward motion, "_Jesus_, that's good. That's…much better than before, _Christ_."

With a growl evoked from deep, deep in his chest, the Alpha's will gave way. After all, how _dare_ an Omega decide to take pleasure unto himself when a perfectly good Alpha was there in front of him? The man was already struggling, but it seemed that John taking himself in hand was the tipping point.

The Alpha kicked the still steaming tray of food away from John's cot, not even giving the punctured and ruined bit of mash and beef a second thought. He managed his way in three long strides and swung a powerful set of thighs over John's groin, gripping at each hip bone as a lion grips prey at the neck to prevent their escape.

John sweated and breathed beneath him, helpless and at the dubious mercy of his hormones. He flushed - a lovely shade of pink that was not the result of exercise or embarrassment, but lust and desperation.

"They…they told me," the Alpha ground out, leaning forward till his skinny blue tie gently brushed against John's chest, "to be prepared…for you…for how you would be…"

He rutted against John's lower belly, his cock, large and forcefully twisted in his trousers catching on the flare of the head of the Omega's own penis on every other thrust.

It was…orgasmic.

Each brush of clothing on his sensitive tissue was bringing him closer and closer to his climax, something that had never been as emotionally simple or easy to reach before (and that was saying much, as it was significantly easier for a male of any second gender to reach orgasm than a female).

"…I took the damn pills," the young man continued, lowering his head and running his nose along the line of John's carotid, smiling as the Omega lengthened the path out for him with a grunt, " the…the suppressors, or whatever they called them - fat lot of good _that _did."

"Oh Jesus," John burst out, blinking the sweat away from his eyes with impatience, "stop talking and bloody fuck me already! I can't _stand_ it."

The brown haired man (barely a man really, little more than a boy) was only more than happy to oblige. He raised himself up, on his knees and glowering over John like a king that was so, so proud of his conquests.

The moment his trembling hands went for his belt buckle, John knew he had him.

It was only a moment, a moment's distraction, to unhook a small metal tine from a hole in a leather strap, but really, that was all it he needed.

John tensed, delivering a perfectly aimed and quite powerful punch to the man's abdomen, designed to wind and surprise his opponent.

The man's breath whooshed out in a laughable yelp of surprise just as John raised his hips at a perfect angle to buck him off onto the ground.

After that, it was only the work of a second to disarm the witless idiot, who thrashed and gasped in shock as John gripped his gun with a practised hand and swung it round hard on the side of his head.

And as the man bled, unconscious, sluggish and cherry bright (though John knew for sure was it was not a fatal head injury), from a minor cut on his side of his head, the Omega couldn't help but grin, showing his teeth in a very triumphant and proud show of his strength.

"Do you still think I'm pretty?"


	25. Chapter 25

Three days.

Three _damn_ days.

Three days of Mycroft and Lestrade with their platitudes and reassurances (hollow though they were) – three days of Molly Hooper regarding him with the saddest brown eyes imaginable. Three days of everyone at Scotland Yard (no thanks to Anderson and his propensity towards gossip) greeting him with the sorriest expression they could muster. It was…

…it was maddening, vexatious, _tedious_.

But - it was not nearly as horrible as the quiet of his mobile, or the knowledge that the one person he loved desperately, in truth, was lost somewhere in the great brick and mortar jungle of London…if he was still in London. Sherlock didn't even want to entertain the possibility of John having been spirited away to some other city, or worse, another country altogether.

It took Mycroft less than 48 hours to gather everything the British Government had on Sebastian Moran. During this time, Sherlock accosted the restauranteurs listed in the receipts from the study. One by one he visited their establishments, questioning, seeking answers from the owners.

Soo Lin Yao was the most helpful. She was a sweet young Omega woman, from China originally, with a heart shaped face and large, dark eyes. When Soo Lin spoke it was in a hesitant, stilted sentence pattern that identified her as a recent immigrant, having known but probably not regularly spoken English for very long. She worked (and lived) in a small restaurant named the Jade Garden, running it along with her quiet Beta brother.

When Sherlock showed her the hastily printed military mugshot of Sebastian Moran, she recognized him immediately.

"He comes by here sometimes, other times we deliver. My brother usually takes the orders," she pushed a lock of shiny, black hair behind a small ear, "but I deliver on my bicycle."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed infinitesimally, catching the scent.

"Tell me where," he said, commanding and forceful. He did not feel guilty when she stared back up at him, eyes widening, small glossy pink mouth open in awe. The apex Alpha knew then that she would do anything he asked, answer any questions - show him anything he wanted. He knew this familiar push and pull of pheromones and sex, and he always knew how to be the dominant partner. A lesser person might have thought this kind of power unethical, but Sherlock, this was part of who he was, after all…and this was all for a _reason_. He _needed_ to find his Omega.

_His Omega_.

John.

It was always John now, the small man with the blond hair mixed with grey like shimmery, silver threading in a tapestry. He kept Sherlock right - and he would continue to do so when Sherlock found him. They'd stop their tiresome little mating dance and finally _have_ each other, _be_ with each other, when John was free. Sherlock knew this, deep down in his chest and deep down in his gut; where his Alpha instincts bubbled and rolled with a fierceness he was never fully able to suppress.

And he knew John felt the same, because Sherlock was almost never, ever wrong.

In the end, it was only a distance of three short city blocks until Soo Lin pointed at the seemingly abandoned and condemned warehouse. On the outside, there was no indication that it had been occupied or even used in any capacity in years. This was on the outside though, and as the old adage says, it's always what's on the _inside_ that matters.

He wanted to run in 'guns blazing' (as the Americans say) immediately, he wanted to call Mycroft and Lestrade and let them know if he didn't return in an hour with John, then send in the Royal Army. But, he stayed his hand, and let the cool salve of logic soothe his manic brain. Instead, he quickly informed the powers that be of his new discovery. Unfortunately, this led to an intense surveillance detail that lasted nearly 24 hours.

Sherlock was beside himself.

"What the _hell_ is taking so long Mycroft? If it was some kind of warehouse full of pies and cherry tarts, we wouldn't be sat around here twiddling our thumbs! Oh no, you'd be in as soon as you could manage!" Sherlock twirled away from Mycroft's Partner's desk, woollen blazer stretching dangerously tight to his lean form.

"Patience Sherlock," his older brother intoned, leaning back on his antique chair, the oil painting of Queen Victoria resplendent behind his well-tailored back, "you of all people know we should not rush these things. We have no idea what kind of security system they have, or if this is even the right address. My men, along with the Met, will gather the information needed before we 'storm the castle,' as it were."

"Every moment, every _second_ we spend out here, John continues to remain in danger. Is this nothing to you?" Sherlock spat, turning round again slowly.

Mycroft sighed, a long and impatient sound that rattled around the dark walls of his office.

"I know what he means to you, brother. But I also know that these are ruthless people that have killed many, and I will not put my own blood in danger unless I know for sure we are headed in the right direction," his voice raised in pitch, ever so slightly, "shout at me all you want, Sherlock, but rest assured that when the time is right, we will strike. You will get your John."

Sherlock held his brother to his word.

* * *

And so, they found themselves outside of the warehouse, sun having set an hour ago, and _three damn days_ after John's disappearance and much, _much_ too long after all this had begun.

Sherlock stood shoulder to shoulder with Lestrade and another young officer from the met, Officer Murray (just call me Bill, please), a small but powerful Beta that Mycroft had personally recommended for the raid. The very atmosphere was tense and quiet, the silence only broken at odd intervals by the irregular static of a handheld two-way radio. Unmarked police vehicles lined the streets, as inconspicuous as possible, and groups of men had gradually been gathering and taking their places for the raid that was soon to come. Sherlock felt very nearly like this was the calm before the storm, the quick, rapid flash of pure light before the thunder and rain came barrelling down.

"Right," Lestrade whispered with authority, wiping his face against the mist in the air, "you two are purely here for John. Our other teams have circled round back, ready to move in at Mycroft's command. It's their job to do the dirty work. You two are _only_ here for John, is that clear?"

In the diffuse lamplight, Lestrade's salt and pepper hair glinted dully, but he was in his element. It showed in the readied stance (hands flexed but loose around his radio and gun) and the gruff cast of his voice as he issued his orders.

Sherlock leered at the young man next to him, irritated that, in the end, it was Mycroft who was in charge of the John Rescuing Operation (as he called it in his mind). A longer glance, and a well-timed inhale, concluded that this man was a Beta (more or less neutral, but leaning towards Omega tendencies), with two cats and a, quite frankly, terrible case of Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

"Why do I have to go in with him?" Sherlock managed to keep his abrupt opposition out of the question, but it was a near thing. He was never really any good at feigning nonchalance when emotions ran high.

Lestrade sighed, attaching the radio on his belt and checking the bullet proof vests both men wore for protection one last time.

"You need someone trained in combat with you Sherlock, we talked about this. Your brother agreed."

"I _am_ well trained in combat - I have a black belt in Baritsu, as you well know," the Alpha paused, he didn't recall being present for this so-called conversation with his brother and Lestrade, "you really do everything my brother tells you, don't you?"

Lestrade levelled the younger Alpha with a vicious glare - he was heading into dangerous territory.

"He'll be your protection Sherlock, and I don't want to hear another word about it."

Officer Murray remained silent throughout the entire exchange, eyes moving back and forth from the consulting detective and DI like he was watching a particularly engaging tennis match.

"Look," he offered, his tenor splitting the tension between the other two men, "if it makes you feel any better, I'd much rather be home watching Top Gear. They're showing the one with the Reliant Robin again," he snorted with amusement, "classic."

Silence – then one long, long measuring glance from Sherlock Holmes.

"Fine," Sherlock sniffed, looming over the smaller man, "are you proficient with that gun you're carrying?"

Murray shrugged, checking the magazine and clicking the safety off. "As proficient as you are at being a poncy git."

Sherlock sighed, high-pitched and overdramatic. "Fair enough."

That last sarcastic remark was punctuated by a fair bit of crackling over Lestrade's radio that quickly gave way to the voice of one Mycroft Holmes, issuing the command to begin operations.

"That's it, that's the signal. You two wait till we have the entrance secured, then go in and get John. Don't do anything _stupid, _alright? Their security is pretty light, just a few ex-military and maybe a dozen hired security guards. Should be fairly easy to handle, but I don't want you to use that as an excuse to be careless."

Sherlock nodded once, his entire body tensed in readiness, excitement flowing through his veins as a companion to the blood that nourished his tissues and vital organs. He managed to listen, vaguely, to Lestrade as he explained the entrance they would use (a rusted set of double doors on the south side) before everything went to hell, quite _spectacularly_.

* * *

John leant over the body of his would-be lover, grimacing and pressing the palm of his right hand against his wilting erection.

That had been almost fun. That had been _exciting_. John had never felt so overtly sexual, so utterly and distinctly _powerful_.

That John could feel all these things about seducing a complete stranger, a boy really, was entirely worrisome. It was probable that the Alpha was only here on orders and truly didn't mean him any harm (though honestly the Nuremburg defence was really no defence at all), and that was the only thing that prevented the erstwhile soldier from planting a bullet directly into the Alpha's frontal lobe.

John stiffened, gun still grasped in his left hand and smeared with a thick swath of the other man's tacky blood, as red and blue lights suddenly filled the white-tiled room in a strange visual tattoo of warning. There was no sound, only lights, rapidly pulsing on and off in a strobe-like pattern, obviously signalling some kind of silent alarm.

"_Fuck_," he spat, straightening, feeling all the strength in his body redistribute to his core in a tell-tale flight or fight response. He glanced quickly at one of the dark, bubble-like projections in the ceiling, knowing full well it was a camera and someone had seen him take out his personal sentry.

Now, he knew he didn't have time to fuck around. While he wasn't sure who exactly this alarm was alerting, he was fairly certain it would result in lots of men with lots of loaded guns.

His blood thrummed in his veins, turbulent and hot, his muscles singing with the extra perfusion of energy and nutrients. He hadn't felt so keyed up and focussed since his time in Afghanistan. It was a feeling he'd sorely missed.

"Right," he quipped, cocking the gun and checking the mag, "now or never, John Watson."

He didn't stop to think what kind of sight he made: a scruffy, too skinny, and underfed Omega, furtively darting around the room with the seat of his pants soiled by his own secretions. At this point, it didn't really matter; his mind had assessed his situation, stamped down on any non-essential bodily functions, and formed a plan of attack. While he knew nothing of the layout of the place, he knew how to fight, he knew how to damage sensitive soft tissue, and he knew how to do it quickly and silently. The gun was only a last resort.

John leant down into a crouch, his movements slow and controlled as he crawled towards the door. The body of the younger Alpha remained blissfully still by the cot, and John surmised it would probably be a bit longer before he woke up.

Two separate pairs of footsteps echoed down what sounded like a long corridor just outside his room. This was not unexpected, and John inhaled a readying breath, positioning himself low and to the side of the entrance. He could hear quick breathless whispers, and was able to deduce two men (Alphas by the thick smell of them), itching for a fight and most likely dispatched by the alarm.

Well, there were only two after all, and John hated to disappoint.

Just as the profile of the first Alpha passed the invisible barrier of the open doorway, John attacked. He swung his right arm away from his side, clenching the barrel of his weapon, and delivered a murderous blow with the butt of the gun to the man's nose.

It exploded in a spray of blood, sprinkling John's hand and forearms in fine, carmine droplets as the man screeched and made to bring both hands to his face. While he was still startled into inactivity, John darted in front of him and grabbed his cheap black tie, pulling it roughly down and towards him. The man flew forward with another startled cry, and John cocked his knee upwards, ramming the man's temple into the dull, blunt surface of patella. John grunted in satisfaction as he heard a distinctive _crunch_ and the man sagged down heavily towards the floor.

Everyone who ever met John had always underestimated his physical capacity and proclivity for violence. This attack had only taken seconds, and the other Alpha who'd answered the alarm only stared down at his unconscious comrade with abject astonishment. John wasn't sure if he was lucky, or if this man was just so inexperienced that he allowed himself to be caught off-guard by a wee bit of grappling and hand-to-hand. No matter, don't let anyone ever say that the Omega wasn't one to take full advantage of his enemy's shortcomings.

John lurched over the downed and bleeding security guard, clenching his left fist as the remaining guard scrambled backwards in terror. The Omega then struck a hammering blow straight to his mid-section, harshly gripping the man's gun arm as he doubled over. With a move borne of years of intense training and practice (really, it was just like riding a bicycle), he swung the man around roughly, lifting the Alpha's arm behind his back so forcefully, he could see the sharp jut of his scapula through his cheap suit as the man's bones twisted and shifted to accommodate the unnatural position.

The Alpha bellowed, his hand spasming and releasing the gun, while John smiled in dark amusement as he heard the low _thunk_ of metal hitting the ceramic floor. He slammed the man face first into the white wall, practically crushing his ribcage, sneering as he did so.

"Tell me where to find Irene Adler," he demanded, his body flush against the other man as he tucked his gun inside the waistband of his scrubs. It wasn't exactly a snug fit, but it would do for now.

The other man gasped for breath, squirming in pain, his free hand clutching uselessly against the wall.

John reached up, grabbing a coarse handful of the man's dirty brown hair. He pulled his head back with a snarl, fancying he could hear each and every vertebrae twist and grind as he forced it backwards with devastating strength.

"_Tell me where she is!_" John didn't bother to raise his voice, he kept it low and direct, savagery and inherent bloodlust implied.

The man cried out again as John continued to hold his neck back painfully. Eventually, he managed to gulp in a few stuttered breaths of air, working his mouth noiselessly until he found his words.

"I – I…please _stop!_" He begged, voice thick and choked with obvious pain.

"_Answer the question!_"

The Alpha shifted, barely containing a whimper.

"She – she's down the hall, to your right. First door - _agghhh_," he gasped again, "f-first door to the left! Is that what you wanted? Christ, let me go!"

John's nostrils filled with the overwhelmingly acrid smell of fear and urine. The Omega frowned and looked down, taking in the sight of the man's trousers slowly darkening with fluid. This man, this Alpha, had just wet himself. Right then, John had had enough. He couldn't allow even a smidgen of sympathy or sentiment to enter his thoughts now. He needed to escape, find Irene, find Marcus's killer, get the _hell _out of here, then find Sherlock.

John grimaced, tightening his grip on the man's hair once more and maliciously shoving it forward to slam his head against the cold, unforgiving tile of the wall. The Alpha howled in pain, and John noticed a bright splotch of blood on the wall, staining the grout and contrasting nicely against the white. He did this one more time with unerring brutality, and the man, like his comrade before him, fell to the floor, limp and pale. The spot of blood bloomed larger now, dripping in long scarlet stripes down the vertical surface. John managed to suppress a visceral rush of gratification, but he couldn't ignore the inappropriate tingling and firmness all the excitement brought to other, more intimate areas of his anatomy. He adjusted himself with a dark grin, shaking his head with rueful purpose; he hadn't had a reaction like that in _years_. That would need to be explored a little more in depth…later.

Though he had downed three of his enemies in rapid succession, he couldn't allow himself to relax now. Guards were like cockroaches, if you see one, there are likely dozens more. He quickly checked the pulse of the two unconscious men, making sure their heartbeats were strong, before standing and pulling out his own gun once more. The first guard would likely wake up with nothing more than a headache, the second would have a broken nose for sure, the third – well, John was maybe a little too rough with that one. He'd certainly need to be treated for a shoulder sprain, at _least_. After all, John was a medical doctor - he knew how to sprain people.

He swiped his bloodied forearm against his brow, displacing heavy beads of sweat and smearing fine lines of blood across his forehead. What did the man say?

Down the hall to the right, first door on the left.

Right.

* * *

Sherlock sprang into action immediately, ignoring the hissing curses of Lestrade behind him.

This was bad.

This was _worse_ than bad because it wasn't immediately clear what set off the alarm – and now the entire warehouse was alerted and their window for getting John out of that hellhole had just shortened dramatically. He shoved the first policeman that dared to get in his way away with a dangerous growl and barrelled forward, a singular purpose in mind.

A kind of controlled chaos erupted around him, now that stealth was no longer an issue, Lestrade and the other team leaders began barking orders left and right. It made no difference that Adler and others knew they were coming, _something_ had tripped the alarm, and time was now of the essence.

Murray, to his credit, was a noiseless shadow behind him, following his lead and exuding a quiet confidence that reminded Sherlock of his own oft-underestimated Omega.

"Are we sticking to the same plan?" The Beta asked, dextrously sidestepping another officer as they made their way around the large building.

"There's no reason to change our course now. We continue with the information we've been given, but when we get inside…" Sherlock stopped, only for a moment, to regard to the smaller man, "how are you at improvising?"

Murray answered him with a sly grin, "I'm no slouch."

"Good," Sherlock loaded his own gun with a metallic _clink_, joining the group of officers gathered at the double doored entrance on the south side of the warehouse.

The order was given, and two broad-chested Alphas gripping a small but dense battering ram came forward. With a coordinated countdown, they swung the Enforcer, slamming it into the seam of the doors. The steel tube trembled, almost as much as the run down doors quivered against the impact. One of the men holding the ram grunted, flexing a heavily gloved hand against the vibrations.

It only took two more blows before the door finally gave way. The left side swung inwards with such force, it clacked against the inside wall with a bang, releasing dust, dirt, and bits of rust particles kicked up by the violent entrance.

The trained officers swarmed in first, fanning out and into the building with military-like ease. Sherlock and Murray came behind them, less interested in securing the premises as they were in reaching John and extracting him, unharmed, from the warehouse. It was their mission, after all.

It was Sherlock's _only_ mission.

* * *

John crouched, moving down the hallway slowly, back curved and body weight balanced on the balls of his feet. Every long, elegant line of his body was taught with potential energy, it simmered under the surface, ready to be sprung at the slightest provocation. He carefully moved one foot in front of the other, gun grasped in both hands in front of him and pointed towards the floor. No one else had come for him, but he wasn't counting himself free of danger just yet.

He wiped a sweaty palm on the surface of his thigh, then replaced it against the warmed grip of the gun. Taking one more cursory glance down the hallway behind him, he set his sights forward and onto the door, wherein he was told he could find Irene Adler.

He really, _really_ hoped she was in there. John needed answers, he needed to know _why_, and he'd be damned if he was leaving without them.


	26. Chapter 26

"Are you boys _quite _finished?" Irene leant against the doorjamb, regarding the three Beta men gathered around a small folding poker table, elegant in her outward serenity. One would never guess her insides churned with barely controlled excitement.

John Watson had survived the transformation and exceeded all of her expectations. Now all that was left was to feed him up a bit, and convince him that it was her (and her alone) that had granted him this new life, and as such, he owed her. She didn't think it would be too much trouble; the man had been so alone for so long, so…unloved, he'd probably snatch up any scraps of affection she was willing to throw his way.

The small camera room was just big enough to house sixteen flat screen monitors for surveillance, each bolted flush against the far wall. The video feeds came from a multitude of cameras strategically placed all around the compound. Every doorway, every room, and every hallway was under the watchful eye of Adler's security team. It had two doors, one opening into Irene's own, quite posh (under the circumstances), quarters, and the other out into the main hallway.

It wasn't a large team - it didn't really need to be. They were only here to guard and control one single man, but he was, by far, the most important thing in this warehouse, the _city_, even.

Irene knew Dr. Frankland fancied himself as some kind of mad doctor geneticist, she also knew he planned to use John for his own gain…show him off to the world and possibly win the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine.

He was a _damned_ fool, and he was certainly not ambitious enough.

"Oi boss lady, calm down. Only Colin's just left to give our little lovey his vittles." A smaller man answered with impatience, fanning out his cards and not even bothering to look up from their game of Texas Hold'em. His name was Miles; he was a bald and generally unpleasant man. He cocked his head towards the one of the screens, showing a youngish security guard carrying a tray to John's room.

As Colin entered the room, his image disappeared off one screen, only to appear immediately on another that covered the entirety of John's well-kept and utilitarian room.

Sebastian Moran chuckled, taking a long drag of his cigarette before placing his bet. "I give him three minutes before he's throwing himself at the Omega. I don't know what you were thinking, Irene, hiring someone so wet behind the ears." The blond man rolled his eyes, the motion pulling at the scar that stretched across his cheek, and returned back to his game with a wry smile.

"He was cheap, and he certainly seems to take his duties more seriously than you lot," she waved a graceful hand over the table, curling her lips at the cold fish and chips and disgustingly full ashtray, "you could at least clean up. Wilkes will be back with the investors soon, and I won't have them frightened away by a bunch of ill-behaved cretins."

A third man, stouter than the other two, had the temerity to look annoyed and almost downright rebellious.

"Look here you, you're paying us to watch one scrawny little Omega, how hard could it possibly be to -"

"_Shit!_" Moran exclaimed without warning - throwing down his cards and standing up from his chair so swiftly the thing wobbled and fell to the side in a clatter of cheap aluminium. He made haste to the screens, moving with a strength and swiftness that conveyed years of military service and taking in the feed of one 'scrawny little Omega' putting down his guard with frightening efficiency.

"What?" Irene moved behind Sebastian, her breath warm against the back of his shoulder, "what is it?"

John Watson was free, and now he was armed.

Sebastian remembered with morbid clarity the night Jake, Michael, and himself had been sent to collect the Omega. In the end, John Watson not a man to be underestimated, and they all had suffered for it.

With another muffled (though sufficiently explicit) curse, he slammed his hand down on a small blue button marked 'silent alarm' and immediately the lights began to flash, strobing bright and piercing against their reflective surfaces.

Sebastian turned towards Irene, anger and excitement flashing across his marred face.

"Irene, I believe your little experiment may be at an end. If you wish to continue and keep your little prize, I suggest you do _exactly_ as I say."

The Omega woman crossed her arms, face set in a stony mask of non-compliance. "I think you're forgetting who is actually in charge here –"

"Do you want to see all your work gone to waste?" Moran interrupted, stepping into her personal space, "or do you want your John Watson?"

Irene opened her mouth as if to give an answer, something argumentative to be sure, but then closed it abruptly and left the small room, waves off discontent positively rolling off her person.

Sebastian watched her leave with some satisfaction, before turning to the other two men, already standing and ready for orders.

"Both of you, arm yourselves, and get that useless Omega back under control. This job had become entirely too tiresome for my liking."

**LINE BREAK**

Irene wanted to slam the door behind her. She wanted the auditory satisfaction of wood scraping upon wood, of unstoppable momentum pounding against the doorjamb and making it quiver in a physical manifestation of her anger.

She did not do this however, as time was tight and it was clear her little project was awake, alert, armed, and really, _really_, pissed off.

She left Moran in the camera room, unwilling to argue with the man any further. She knew he wanted to take control and bring up all the 'you should have's,' and 'I told you so's' he'd mentioned throughout this entire experiment – and as such, she was quite through with spending any more time in his rather dubious company. Her path was clear, as it had been many times before, if she couldn't convince John to join her…she and Wilkes would begin a new cycle, move to a new city, and continue on in their life's work. Maybe, if they were very lucky, they'd find another candidate and make a new and even better John Watson.

Though, she highly doubted that would be the case.

Irene moved with practised efficiency, gathering only the most important and damning evidence she could find. She cursed the fact that Wilkes wasn't here, that he was off somewhere in Tokyo, debasing himself and begging for enough money to continue their efforts. It would have been nice to have someone else do all this…dirty work, she admitted with a grimace.

The paper shredder sat inconspicuously under her cheap pressed-wood desk, and she was glad she'd had the forethought to buy the expensive type that cut the paper into little dainty diamonds. It swiftly reduced the mounds of folders and records into delicate little bits, like snowflakes, that slowly drifted into the collection container. It'd take positively _ages_ to put those documents back together, if they found them at all.

She focussed on being as quick as possible, feeding each and every sheaf into the insatiable machine, smiling more and more as the documents that outlined any suspicions of her complicity were offered up to the sharp teeth of the shredder.

**LINE BREAK**

That's exactly how he found her, moving with a frantic energy and hunched over some ungodly loud, whirring machine.

John stayed crouched, though he could feel the wetness of his pants sticking to his legs, reminding him of his own vulnerability.

Well, _fuck_ that.

A newly formed Omega he may be, and in heat, but that in no way made him stupid, or weak. Ms. Irene Adler was about to learn that, the hard way.

"_Stop_," he commanded, voice low and rough, as if he couldn't hide the emotion behind his words no matter how hard he tried, "stop it right now. Turn round, and face me."

The woman froze, though it took her a good long moment to comply. Hesitation was written in the line of her shoulders and the frozen tension of her arms. When she did finally turn and face him, her face was calm, though it was obviously forced; her expression tight and carefully controlled.

"John –"

"_No._ You shut up now," he levelled the gun at her chest, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the ache in his hip, "you don't get to call the shots anymore_ Irene_."

He moved into the room fully, silently closing the door behind him with a sibilant _click_ \- and though he never came too close, the gun was always aimed at the woman.

"Tell me _why?_"

"John, _please_, you must understand…" she warbled, chest heaving in a too tight satin button up, deep crimson (the colour of blood), "it was all Dr. Wilkes and Dr. Frankland…I – I…I was just a _pawn_. You must know…"

She dissolved in a fit of tears, covering her face with trembling hands, nails as red as her blouse.

John moved across the room, suspicious and apprehensive, half-crouched and conscious of both exits. Years of military training had imparted on him certain skills, one of them making sure his immediate area was secure. She moved along with him, and they almost circled each other, at least two metres between. With a hitch in her breath, she wiped one long, creamy forearm across her face. Her mascara and eyeliner smeared; a fresh shock of black against her alabaster beauty, which strangely enough, did nothing to undermine her loveliness.

John wasn't buying it for a second. If she was just pawn, an innocent, why the hell was she shredding documents? It didn't make sense, and John needed answers, and he was _so damn tired_ of being used and lied to.

"Shut up. Just…shut up. Answer my questions and I _might_ let you live."

She nodded, suddenly meek and pliable. Her entire manner seemed to deflate and she clasped her long fingers together, holding them in front of her like an ineffectual barrier.

"What have you done to me?" As always, he kept the gun levelled while keeping the far door (not the one he entered through) in his sights.

"We've, well, Dr. Wilke's altered your genetic code, John –"

"_Don't call me John_!" He bore down on her, baring his teeth in righteous anger. "You don't have the _right_ to call me John!"

She flinched visibly, biting her lower lip in distress. With an inhale, she continued:

"Years ago, Dr. Frankland worked at Baskerville, an elite military facility for medical experimentation."

John nodded, remaining on high alert, though obviously interested in what she had to say.

"Well, I was one of their subjects. I was an unformed Omega, like you were once, and they were testing a new type of serum…a kind of therapy to activate a formerly dormant gene only present on certain Omegas," she wiped her tears away again, trying to catch her breath, her eyes becoming unfocussed behind John, "you see, not all Omegas have this gene. They once considered it a throwback, a…a viral remnant, until Dr. Frankland realized what it truly was."

John narrowed his eyes, continuing to listen and becoming somewhat engrossed in her tale. "And what was that exactly?"

"An almost extinct species, Mr. Watson," she replied, removing a tissue from her desk to dab daintily at her cheeks, "I don't know if you've heard the tales of the Omega leaders of the past: Cleopatra, Boadicea, Alexander the Great, and even King Arthur…if you believe in such things. These were powerful Omegas, brutal, born and bred to be rulers. I know all of this may sound like nonsense to you now, in this day and age, but there are scholars who believe that some of the most influential persons in history were these types of Omegas."

"What do you mean? These types of Omegas?" John cocked his head, his hyper-vigilance faltering in his curiosity.

"Dr. Frankland calls them vertex Omegas. He always believed there was an Omega equivalent to the apex Alpha, and he was _right! _We don't know why, well, there are some theories, but these powerful Omegas became…well, almost extinct. Some sociologists believed they threatened the power structure of the apex Alphas so much that they were hunted and persecuted almost into non-existence. But, still, some survived," she motioned to John, and then back to herself, "you and I had this gene, yet, we couldn't just form as normal because it was dormant, we needed help to become what we were destined to be. Don't you see Jo – Mr. Watson? Don't you see? We've helped you become what you were truly meant to be."

John was shocked - no - he was positively _floored_ by all of this new information. If this was true then…what did this mean about the history he'd learned back in school? What did this mean about the world he lived in? He'd never heard about these…these super-omegas (vertex?)…and he wasn't entirely sure he could trust Irene at all. She seemed to be baring her soul to John, but…could he trust her.

Irene's eyes unfocussed once again as she sniffled into her tissue, looking past John as if seeing right through him. Her perfectly formed lips trembled in agony, a fresh bout of tears threatening to ruin what was left of her makeup.

"John, _please_. You and I are the only ones of our kind. I can help you and teach you how to use your gifts. You'd be shocked at what you could achieve now, if you really wanted. I can show you the way…I would never harm you, please believe me." She beseeched, one tender hand outstretched, glossy red nails glinting in the alarm lights.

"But what does that mean for me? For my life? Am I stuck with you forever…what about what_ I_ want?" The blond lowered his gun, affected, mind spinning with the revelation of it all.

"We can be together, you and I. The perfect pair – we could be…partners in crime, so to speak. Oh, the things we could do! Just use your imagination, John. We could have everything we've ever wanted!" She stepped toward him, excitement overruling her distress, her hands clutching the tissue till her knuckles blanched.

"Everything we've ever wanted?" He questioned, taking a step back, gun still at his side, grip loose, "what you mean is power. That's it, isn't it?"

"John –"

"No, don't bullshit me Irene. What is it you really want from me? Why go through all this? I know I'm not your first test subject, just possibly the first one to be successful. So…what is it you want?"

She wrung the tissue to the point of tearing, before meeting his eyes again, and when she did there was little left of her previous tears.

"I want you to join me. I want it to be _you_ and _me_. You and I can…we can…we can get whatever we want, whomever we want. You could - you could have your Sherlock, if you would just join me."

Her reddened eyes took on a feverish glint, so near to maddening that John took a step back and raised his gun once more.

Behind him, before he even had a chance to react, John heard a faint _click_, then a tell-tale burst of sound that sent him off-balance and staggering forward.

A brutal force, much like someone fiercely pushing the back of his right thigh had him sprawling forward, crashing to the ground and unable to break his fall. His right cheekbone hit the polished concrete with crushing accuracy as the pain in his leg bloomed on a scale that couldn't be properly conveyed with words.

It was all-consuming: he couldn't _breathe_, he couldn't _think_, he only gulped in air as if his life depended on it – which it did.

Agony coursed through the back of his thigh, searing and singeing its way through his nervous system, alighting each and every dermatome crosswise across his body.

_Oh God_.

He'd been shot from behind. He knew he should have never taken his eyes off of that other doorway – how could he have been so _stupid?_

He'd been shot _again _(because once in the shoulder wasn't enough for one lifetime, apparently_)_, and he knew this pain. He knew this pain like he knew how hard he clenched his hand when he tried not to give in to his anger, or like he knew the number of freckles on his sister's face.

As the shock began to set in, he heard a distant screech of anger, then voided his bladder and retched, tenacious globs of bilious mucous glopping wetly onto the floor.

Not for the first time, he closed his eyes and pleaded - _Please God, let me live._

**LINE BREAK**

Sherlock had almost lost count of how many corridors he'd run through, of how many dead ends he'd suffered in pursuit of his quarry.

Beside him, Murray, said nothing. His strong and capable presence was a boon to the apex Alpha, keeping him grounded and far less distraught than normal.

They had just rounded a corridor that looked very much like the last five or so they'd already cleared when a gunshot, clear and sharp, echoed through the compound.

Sherlock tensed a quick moment, and then moved west, towards the last remnants of the small, percussive blast.

They encountered a doorway, and a little further down, another corridor in which an unconscious man was splayed, slumped against the tiled floor.

Sherlock pushed his ear against the door in front of him, thankful that it was cheap and not solid wood, and heard heated voices (almost shouting) in the room beyond.

He turned to Murray, prismatic eyes dark and direct, "Follow my lead, and do not hesitate to shoot if you feel threatened. Do you understand?"

Murray swallowed, gulping down a heady rush of adrenaline, "Ay, ay, Captain."

Sherlock managed a small, amused smile before rearing back and kicking the door inwards with all the force he could muster.

The scene before him would stay with him throughout the rest of his days.

A woman, petite, conventionally beautiful and showing biological markers of recent distress stood near a desk, her face a mask of shock and disbelief.

A man stood just outside another doorway across the way and leading out of the room, lowering a smoking glock to his side, a look of smug satisfaction on his disfigured face.

Then there was John Watson.

His John Watson laid in a pool of his own blood and fluids on the cool tile floor, keening and gasping for breath.

"Jesus, _Shit!_" Murray gasped behind him, his voice perfectly illustrating his disgust.

Sherlock locked eyes with the man standing across the room, and in that instant a challenge was made. If this was the olden days, one of the men would have approached the other and slapped him across the face in challenge of a duel.

Well, luckily for Sherlock, he also had a gun, and he was damn well good at using it.

The Beta raised his arm again to take aim at the brunet, but he was a little too slow and a little too late for the genius detective.

Sherlock calculated, hypothesized, estimated, and raised his arm, pulling his trigger finger back in a smooth, pure contraction of motion that sent the bullet flying, making its final resting place between the eyes of the scarred man.

Sebastian Moran's head tilted backwards, gently, as if someone just swapped him on the forehead in a loving gesture. Then, he collapsed upon himself and fell to the ground in a heap of flesh and bone.

Murray moved forward to contain Irene Adler, who was screaming and inconsolable in her terror. Sherlock thought he heard words, maybe some pleading dripping from her duplicitous lips, but he paid her no attention. She was nothing to him.

Instead, he dove towards John, wrapping his Belstaff around the man, alarmed by the large pool of coppery, tacky blood that surrounded his Omegas lower body.

The wound was to the back of the right thigh, not life-threatening at first glance, but no-doubt horridly painful. John shivered and convulsed in Sherlock's arms, flecks of thick greenish fluid against his lips.

"I…I…" John gurgled, each word caught in painful throat spasms.

"Quiet now," Sherlock admonished, though his eyes only spoke of love and tenderness, "help is coming. You _will_ be fine."

John half-smiled through gore-flecked lips, "Did…did I tell you I was special, Sherlock? One of kind?"

The apex Alpha pressed against John's wound, causing the Omega to grunt in extra distress.

"You don't have to tell me John, I've always known."


	27. Chapter 27

When John was but a lad, he used to spend every other summer with his paternal grandmother in Scotland. She was his favourite grandparent by far (which wasn't really saying much, considering his mother's parents had passed away before he was born); and had such a voice, like the whispering sound of heather swaying gently on the northern moors.

She owned a small bungalow in North Berwick, just off a road that ran along the line of the grey and stormy North Sea. John would watch his reflection in the car window as they drove by the shore, feathery coastal grasses dotting the landscape and keeping the sandy dunes from encroaching upon the small two –way lane. He always knew they were close to her house when he passed a strange grassy hill, ancient (he was told), upon which two rather unusual whale bones were placed atop in an archway just so. John smiled every time he saw it, appearing out of the mist like a bizarre new gateway God had once begun, but abandoned for better things (possibly bunnies). His wee Scottish gran said the archway was erected sometime in the early 1700s, and had been replaced many times over the centuries (John found out many, many years later that it had collapsed not too long ago and subsequently been replaced with a plaster replica, shame that). Most of the community was quite proud of their strange and unusual landmark.

John preferred to think of it as a doorway to another world, a place bright and fair, full of pirates, rugby, and sponge cake as far as the eye could see. He didn't tell this to his gran, though.

And so the bones would appear at every visit, an intriguing and ghostly remnant of a sea creature larger than John's small mind could imagine, at that time.

But by far, his favourite memories of Enid Watson were when she used to read to him at night, just before tucking him in under hand-made patchwork quilts. It wasn't so much the stories that had him so enthralled, but her voice…because she had _such_ a voice - soft, quiet, _serene_, and everything _good_ in this world that refused to be corrupted and ruined. Her brogue was gentle, lyrical, and always had young John nodding off within a few passages, easing him gently into dreams of ghillie dhu, selkies, and all manner of magical things that still existed for a little boy visiting the shores of the North Sea.

* * *

The voice in his mind was similar to his gran's, though the accent was all wrong. Still, it was delicate and sweet, weaving through his dreams and pulling his consciousness pleasantly away from the nostalgic depths of his deep and drug-induced slumber.

"…Royal Liverpool Children's Hospital led to widespread soul searching in the medical profession, and a fundamental change in how we treat the dead body. In response, the 2004 Human Tissue Act was created –"

John managed to blink his eyes open with some effort, grit and tears clinging to his eyelashes and doing a bang-up job of glomming them together, "Molly?"

"Oh! John!" the brunette straightened, her voice brighter and sounding less tired and more animated with John's increased stirring, "you're awake! Everyone will be so pleased." She closed the booklet from which she was reading, but not before John could glean the title. Somehow it didn't surprise him that Molly would choose to read passages from the Journal of Clinical Pathology to him whilst he was unconscious. The thought made him smile, though his lips were dry and cracked, she was eternally charming, this Miss Hooper.

A blush crept across her cheeks as she noticed his glance at the journal. "Oh, I know it doesn't make for riveting reading but, we're both doctors…so, I thought maybe it would bore you to consciousness?"

His smile widened and opened into a small laugh, which came out dry and strained. It was only just then that he realized quite how ridiculously thirsty he was. The Omega took a moment to peer about the room whilst Molly fussed and gathered her things.

It was standard fare, private, and he supposed he could thank the Holmes' for that small mercy. The monitor beeped cheerfully (quite different from the last one he'd been attached to), and a collection of tubing wound in and around each other, all leading into an IV in his right antecubital vein. Another IV, nestled securely in his left arm, attached to a morphine pump, the handle and button of which rested near his left hand.

He took a quick inventory of his body, and while he was terribly thirsty and physically weak, he wasn't in a great deal of pain.

Molly slung her oversized bag over her left shoulder, a bit of her long scarf getting caught up under the straps.

"Oh, I know I'm not supposed to but, I made sure to give you an extra dose of the good stuff while you were out. You were moaning a bit," she smiled her small little smile (the Molly original, he deemed), excited. "Dreaming, I think, about…whalebones and sponge cake?" She looked quite amused at that, "I'll go let everyone know you're awake. Sherlock will be so annoyed since you woke on my watch. I'm sure he'll claim I made you do it on _purpose_."

She giggled a bit, unduly pleased with herself and absolutely unconcerned with possibly facing a belligerent Sherlock. John stopped her just as she turned to go, raising his left hand as much as he could.

"Molly, wait…" he swallowed, his tongue scraping across his hard palate, "how long?"

"How..?" she peered at him questioningly, before understanding dawned on her lovely face, "Oh! Oh well um, you had the surgery and you've sort of been out of it since then. So, I think, about three days? Give or take a few hours."

He nodded, shutting his eyes against the lights, though they were relatively soft and atmospheric for a hospital room.

Now he remembered: the kidnapping, the compound, Irene, escape, the horrible realization that he'd been irrevocably altered on a genetic level, and then pain - awful, burning pain. His right hand twitched and pulled weakly at the blanket, uncovering his right thigh. There really wasn't much to see, just surgically white gauze wound round his upper leg.

Absently, he wondered what type of wound it was. Did they have to dig the bullet out, or was it a through and through? Would it affect his gait even more than his previous injury did? He had fought so long and hard in physiotherapy to avoid the use of a cane, but now? He couldn't stand the thought of being even more crippled than he already was. How was he to continue his life, on the streets (or otherwise, he dared hope) even more grievously wounded than before?

Tears stung at his eyes, his chest tightening in an overwhelming wave of life and unstoppable consequence washing over him. What was to become of him now? Or, more important than that, _what had he truly become?_

"Oh John," Molly took his hand, her own appearing quite small and tender as she squeezed in comfort, "don't do this. The doctor's well…let me go fetch Sherlock. I know he will want to tell you everything. He's been quite a nightmare actually. He goes from sitting outside your room, eyes open but completely unresponsive, to manic and frightening every poor soul in this place. Quite the par for him of course."

Her wide, velveteen eyes looked quite serious, but the twist of her lips held more than little bit of mirth.

"Just, um, don't go anywhere…I mean – not as if you could, you know…because you're…well," she sighed, shaking her head in annoyance, one messy braid flopping off her shoulder, "I'll just shut up now and get Sherlock."

John tried to smile again; he even mustered a half grin, but the reality of his situation was becoming a bit too much for him currently. His right thigh had begun to throb, dull pulses that pounded through his abused muscles and had him pressing the small blue button on the morphine tap.

The machine dinged, and a rush of warmth tingled at the base of spine, slowly crawling up his back to wind itself around the sides and back of his head. It was such an odd feeling, like millions of gentle needles distracting him from the pain and pulling his eyelids shut with the soothing pads of soft fingers.

* * *

He didn't mean to fall asleep, really he didn't. But one can only resist the rich undertow of narcotics for so long, especially when he was already laid up in hospital and quite exhausted to begin with. When John opened his eyes for the second time that day, he was pleased to see a familiar figure hovering about his doorway. Caught between lucidity and the last vestiges of morphine swimming about his veins, the Omega wasn't sure if Sherlock looked relieved, hopeful, or terrified.

"Sherlock…?" he began to push himself up to his elbows before wincing as a spasm of pain roared through his still fresh surgical site, "_ah…shit_," he cried, unconsciously clenching his left fist into his blanket and breathing in through his nose to a count of five, then out to a count of the same.

It was a few minutes before he could pull himself together, and Sherlock's face dissolved into a worried scowl (it was quite charming to John, he looked almost like a little boy who fretted over the state of a broken toy).

"Can you believe I managed to forget about that?" he laughed mirthlessly, lowering himself back down slow and steadily, "forgot how good these drugs were."

Sherlock remained silent, still standing uncertainly in the doorway, his handsome face drawn and pallid. Though John was the one wounded and in hospital, Sherlock looked like _he'd_ been through a far greater ordeal than the Omega (in _his_ mind, he probably had).

John managed a thin smile, knowing he probably looked far worse than ever the apex Alpha had seen him before. They hadn't managed to put much weight on him while he was held captive, and now, well, one didn't garner much of an appetite while initially recovering from a serious leg wound. He knew his face was still scraped and bruised, unshaven, cheekbones entirely too sharp, and the bed baths (while mildly entertaining at first) didn't hold a candle to a good long soak in a proper hot bath. Hell, he'd even take a quick hosing down at this point, just to get the stink of infirmity off him.

"Please…" John swallowed, fiddling idly with the sleeve of his hospital gown, suddenly feeling nervous under the strength of Sherlock's gaze, "please don't just stand there."

Sherlock winced, almost startled into motion by John's plea. His quicksilver eyes roved around the room, assessing and categorizing, before he slowly removed his Belstaff and lowered it over a standard looking beige fold-out lounge chair.

"I told the guard to make sure no one else enters this room…for the time being anyway."

The Alpha's strong baritone almost echoed in the room, and John revelled in it, thinking it had been far too long since he'd heard that beautiful voice. It called to him almost, like a siren song, like a melody he'd forgotten but now remembered with more than a little fondness.

The Omega nodded, smoothing out his blanket and waiting for Sherlock to continue.

"I – I wanted some time, when you woke up." The Alpha stepped closer, cautiously, as if John were a timid, wild thing, easily spooked and ready to bolt. John only smiled up at him tiredly, their encounter already beginning to drain what little energy reserves he had.

Sherlock pulled the chair closer, sliding it noiselessly across the floor before he sat on the edge, taking all of John in in one long sweep from head to blanket covered toes.

"Did – did you want to talk? I haven't given my statement to the Met yet, but I'm sure Lestrade -"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, abruptly. "No, I – I wanted to begin."

"Begin?" John tilted his head curiously, not even a little bit concerned when Sherlock took his own, much smaller, hand in his.

"Yes John, I wanted to begin the process of making you mine…properly, this time." He amended, eyes flickering down and accessing some memory he wasn't particularly proud of - probably the rushed and spontaneous scenting in the hallway if John wanted to hazard a guess.

Arousal, sweet and savoury, flushed through the Omega's torso, colouring his cheeks and almost setting his hair on end. The room filled with the subtle scent of sex hormones, though they were dampened by sickness and medication. Sherlock locked eyes with John and the Alpha's nostrils flared, his heightened senses noticing even the faintest of pheromones in the air. Suddenly, he looked hungry…starved.

_Christ_, John would certainly need a little extra bit from the taps for this. He anxiously depressed the button for the machine and swallowed, though his mouth remained dry.

"You are amenable, John?"

The Omega couldn't nod his head fast enough, though the rush of morphine through his system set his vision swimming. "Yes, _oh God yes_, but…you want to do this here? Now?"

"I've already waited too long, wasted too many days, I – I was a fool. I tried not getting involved, I tried not to give in to – to _sentiment_ but, when I found the one I love most in the world lying in a pool of his own blood…"

"Most in the world?" John couldn't believe his ears, he must be hallucinating - it must be the morphine. John had never imagined, _could_ never imagine that someone like Sherlock Holmes would consider him beloved above all else.

"John, you know I dislike repeating myself."

Sherlock held John's right hand loosely, then brought his left hand up to flatten out the palm and splay the Omega's fingers apart. There he dipped his nose, running it along the fleshy, sensitive curve between John's thumb and index finger, inhaling, his mouth slightly open as if taking in his scent as to taste it.

"You're scent has changed John. It's muted now, of course, but irresistible and even more _you_, if such a thing were possible." He took in each finger splayed in front of his face, currently enrapt and beautiful in its concentration, before taking the tip of his hot, pink tongue and tasting each and every fingertip on the Omega's hand.

"I'll not let you recover fully before letting the world know you are mine and mine _only_."

John's cock twitched feebly in his hospital gown, interested but inhibited by sickness and narcotics. Had he been hale and hearty, this scenting (only barely begun) would've surely ended one way and one way only – with John on his knees, classically presenting his dripping sex to his mate, and just barely keeping his begging at bay.

Sherlock moved up his arm, slowly, languidly, snuffling into the crook of his elbow and tasting the delicate skin at the fold (salty, with the tang of musk). He lifted off the chair, effortlessly graceful, and joined John on the bed, always acutely aware of his injury.

Behind John's flushed and overwhelmed face, the monitor's beeping began to increase in tandem with the blond's rising heart rate. Dully, in the back of his mind, John reckoned he heard a stifled conversation between two people outside his door: one probably a concerned nurse, the other Sherlock's 'guard.' It didn't last long before there was silence once more.

Sherlock ran his large, strong hands up both of John's arms softly, fingertips catching on the sparse hairs of his forearms, sending tremors of sensation all throughout the Omega's body. He straddled John, each knee at opposite sides of his chest, resting no weight whatsoever on the smaller man. This afforded John with a more than adequate view of Sherlock's swollen cock, forced to the right side of his ridiculously expensive trousers, and appearing both plush and turgid, emitting a heat the Omega imagined he could feel like a blast furnace against his face.

Oh _Christ_, oh _God_. This was lovely. John was certain he was dreaming now, and heaven help whatever hapless fool that made the mistake of waking him up.

With agonizing slowness, Sherlock pulled each of the shoulder snaps on John's gown free, revealing his thin, scarred chest bit by bit. It was warm in the hospital room, but still the blond shivered, his nipples contracting, forming tight little knots of sensitive tissue. With mild amusement, John was glad that at least some erectile function still existed in his dazed state.

John had never been a man who was very self-conscious of his appearance (at least not before Afghanistan). He was shorter than the average English male, and relatively slight. His facial features bordered on average, though he was quite proud of his eyes: cobalt blue with a tawny ring around the pupils. His time spent in the Army leant him a lean and fit physique he had once been proud of. Even after he was invalided out of the service, even when he was living rough and barely had the money to wash and wear clean clothes, he didn't really spare much energy for worrying about his appearance beyond the odd realization that he must have looked bloody awful most of the time (and smelt that way as well).

But now – with this…this beautiful specimen of human perfection directly above him, peering into his eyes with all the love and want that John thought he'd never have, well, he suddenly couldn't bear to look Sherlock in the eye.

His arms twitched as he moved to close them over his gaunt chest, over his gunshot wound, keenly aware of the sharp jut of each rib and the concavity of his abdomen.

Sherlock tensed above him, before grabbing each wrist in a tender grip, pulling them away to expose John's upper chest fully.

"Stop it."

John still couldn't meet his eyes. "Sherlock, I –"

"No. I can hear what you're thinking it's so loud, and I'm telling you right now, stop it."

Finally, with a hesitation borne of a very real fear of rejection, the Omega met his Alpha's impassioned gaze.

"I just," John's chest heaved, voice thick and insecure, "why me? You – you could have anyone, _anyone_ you wanted Sherlock. I just…don't understand."

"Of course you don't understand," Sherlock half-grinned, releasing John's wrists and gently laying both his warm hands on John's chest, "you are an idiot, after all."

The Omega sighed, irritated and feeling overwhelmingly vulnerable. "Not helping, Sherlock."

The apex Alpha's hands lingered maddeningly, running slowly over each scar and dip on his pectorals, before focusing their butterfly-soft tips over his gnarled shoulder.

"You see, but you do not observe John…my John." He spoke lowly, almost to himself, as his large hands circled the width and breadth of John's imperfectly healed injury, "when first I saw you, under that blasted bridge, I knew you were more than you appeared - you with your tatty jumpers and your little band of friends. Of course I had heard about you, the Good Doctor, from one of my own little miscreants. It helps to keep some of the homeless on my payroll of course, you'd be shocked at the amount of information they can gather for someone of my profession."

Sherlock gently curled both of his hands around John's knobby shoulders, leaning forward slightly and placing his beautiful face against the crook of John's neck, inhaling his scent there with an intensity and trembling ferocity that bordered on worshipful.

"My brave John, who fought in a war, who withstood a lifetime of discrimination and pity, what were you doing out there? What were you capable of – a man that could heal and harm with the same pair of hands?" Sherlock brought the broad, flat surface of his tongue to lathe against the side of his throat, lapping in long sweeps as if the surface of the Omega's flesh held the sweetest ambrosia.

John almost sobbed, eyes filling with tears he absolutely refused to shed. It wasn't that what Sherlock said was untrue; he just didn't see himself that way. He was simply John Watson, doctor, soldier, as were many who had served alongside him. He wasn't special, he was just…well, the same as any other, he supposed – just a damaged man trying to get by in a world that no longer cared about those who had sacrificed so much in its name.

The feel of the Alpha's tongue, slick and seeking, sent shockwaves directly to his neglected prick, which twitched in earnest but couldn't quite follow through.

"Sherlock…"

"Then when I met you, in that alleyway, how you fought…" Sherlock groaned, low and sultry, the sound resonating from deep within his chest, and his hips, which had become quite active during the scenting, stilled in their abortive thrusts with obvious difficulty, "I knew then, on some basic level, that it was you and only you that could be mine. Your situation was unfortunate, but you were worthy."

Each word accompanied a puff of warm, tangy air against his skin, the vibrations tickling his neck as Sherlock made his way to the other side, never stopping in his verbal and physical adulation.

"I have been cruel and secretive to you, I know, I apologize in every way a person can apologize. I will apologize every day for the rest of my life if it means I can have you. If _you_ will have _me_. "

"Oh Jesus yes," John answered, even though it wasn't truly a question. He ran his rough hands up and over Sherlock's straining thighs, quivering now at the effort at maintaining restraint, before making his way quickly to the man's perfectly long neck. There he ran his hands into those decadent, richly sable curls and _gripped_. "Shut up now, and for the love of all that is holy, just fucking _kiss_ me."

It was obvious that, on some level, Sherlock had meant the kiss to be gentle, almost chaste. But that, most assuredly, was not the kiss that prevailed. Fleetingly, John wondered if the acrid taste of his mouth (he wasn't entirely sure when he last brushed his teeth), would put the amorous Alpha off - but that worry was appeased, most ardently, by the long, low moan that erupted from his partner when their kiss deepened.

John didn't know what it felt like to be swallowed whole, consumed completely in the metaphorical sense. He knew what it felt like to be taken sexually, to be owned, but this…this felt like Sherlock had grasped the entirety of his being and wrapped it in a most fervent and depthless embrace from which John may never learn to adequately escape. He was lost, lost forever to this man, and this was only the beginning, only a _kiss_.

Sherlock moved above him, thumbs massaging his jawline as his lips avidly pulsed and moved against John's own. His tongue, the curious and exceptional thing that it was, searched John's mouth, seeking the knowledge and truth of his love in its exploration.

With just a tilt of John's head, their fit was perfect. The heat and scent of the man above him was exceptional, and John could cry out loud that their coupling, heated but still quite innocent, could go no further in his condition.

It was probably because of this, their mutual passion and almost strangling affection for each other, that neither one of them heard the low voices outside of John's door. Nor did they see that door open, admitting a rather scruffy Detective Inspector who started violently, throwing a hand up to his face and shielding his eyes in outright alarm.

"_Bloody hell you two!_" Lestrade managed with some difficulty, though outrage and inappropriate laughter warred on his face. He slammed the door behind him with great prejudice, "we're in hospital, have some _decency!_"


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Note: Hello everyone! I appreciate all your favorites and follows so much! This had been the biggest writing project I have ever done in my life and I am almost finished ! OH MY GOODNESS! All of your kind words and reviews make me so happy! Thank you! Only three more chappies to go! - Blue**

Sherlock gingerly poured a bit of milk into his tea, allowing the thick liquid to swirl in fanciful wisps before finally settling in a homogenous mixture and granting the tea a lovely caramel colour. He brought it to his lips slowly, conscious of the steam still lifting from the surface, but he cared little as to whether or not it had cooled sufficiently for drinking. The first sip seared his tongue, and the tacky membrane of his inner bottom lip stuck momentarily to the gilded edge of the teacup as he pulled the antique china away from his mouth.

He stared at his brother, his face a mask of disappointment and ill-disguised, dark amusement.

"The woman escaped the clutches of Mycroft Holmes?" he queried, his voice mocking and intentionally provocative (but not without a hint of concern), "why how_ever_ did that happen?"

Mycroft Holmes sat across from his younger brother, one leg swung casually over another, the bottom of his trousers lifting ever so slightly to reveal the argyle pattern of his dress socks. Beside him, his ubiquitous umbrella rested upright against the plush, brocade arm of the chair. He rolled his eyes, gathering his hands in his lap before responding in an icy tone.

"Your sarcasm is neither endearing nor offensive enough to goad me, brother mine - needless to say, it involved the injection of a sedative of questionable nature, and at least more than one co-conspirator in our midst. We are still trying to puzzle out exactly how she managed it." He brought his own teacup to his mouth, sipping gently, his face so impassive that it was impossible to tell whether or not he enjoyed Mrs. Hudson's tea making skills or not.

"Puzzling out?" Sherlock scoffed, plopping his small half-empty piece of china back on the serving tray with a clatter of porcelain on enamel, "I fail to see the great mystery. She has an accomplice, simple as that. Someone behind the scenes, obscenely powerful – someone who, I believe, funded not only the London study, but the others as well."

"An excellent theory," Mycroft admitted begrudgingly, "but our surveillance and chatter analysis have led to no such conclusion. It appears Wilkes and Adler were acting on their own…even Dr. Frankland was but a peripheral component in their schemes."

"Ah yes, whatever happened to the good Dr. Wilkes?" Sherlock leant back in his chair, placing both arms wide against the armrests, legs crossed, mirroring his older brother.

"He was detained two days after Adler whilst trying to board the Eurostar at St. Pancras, attempting, but failing, to flee to Paris. Quite an unimaginative man, you'd think South America, or even Southeast Asia would have been more appropriate for fleeing the British Government."

"And Dr. Frankland?" Sherlock was only vaguely aware that, had this been any other case, he would already have all of these little details processed and filed away. However, his focus was less and less on the perpetrators of the horrible experiment and more on the Omega laid up in hospital with a gunshot wound to his right thigh.

"Also detained…I suspect neither of them will see anything other than four solid cell walls for a good long time. They are charging Wilkes with the deaths of least twelve young men, and Frankland as an accessory."

The apex Alpha nodded, gathering his hands in front of his chin and running his thumb over the smooth, downy underside of his bottom lip.

Both men glanced to the window when they heard the muffled sound of a car door closing, followed by voices, several of which were very familiar.

Sherlock shot up from his chair, momentarily upsetting the tea tray, though it merely wobbled, spilling bits of his tea on its smooth painted surface. He flew to the window, pulling back the lacy curtain with needless force. He stared for a quick few seconds then whirled, turning on his brother with barely contained excitement disguised as indifferent haughtiness.

"I grow tired of your presence dear brother. Leave now." Sherlock dashed over to the mirror, checking the way his curls laid just so over his forehead in the way he knew drove John crazy. He ran two large hands down his bespoke white dress shirt, buttons almost straining at the slim fit (too tight, some would say). It showed off his lean but muscled physique in a way no mass produced garment ever could. "What do you think of this shirt?"

Mycroft sighed, eyes bulging and lips pressing together in a frog-like frown. "I daresay he will probably not notice, since he'll still be in a great deal of pain and –"

"Never mind. Not important, get _out_ Mycroft. John is home."

The older man stood, unable to affect the simple grace his brother possessed, and gripped his umbrella as he did so.

"Please don't forget to share this new information I've left for John," he motioned to the manila folder residing just beside the soiled tea tray, "our interviews with Mrs. Adler proved most informative before her unexpected escape."

Sherlock grunted and moved past Mycroft, opening the door to the landing as an outright invitation to _get the hell out_.

Mrs. Hudson's warbling, high-pitched voice emanated from the ground floor, gushing and lamenting over the state of poor John Watson. The Omega, his voice a perfect, sweet tenor, answered with mild amusement and many reassurances. A third voice, gruff and loud, soon joined the conversation.

Sherlock closed his eyes in a desperate bid for patience. Why, _why_, did everyone insist on being alive and present and _chatty_ when all the Alpha wanted to do was welcome his Omega home in privacy.

Mycroft stared at his brother in outright amusement, though only those very close to him would be able to tell. The man was a master of facial neutrality, but the mirth behind his eyes was obvious to those who knew what they were looking for.

"Well then, shall we?" Mycroft began, moving out towards the landing and onto the steps, the accompanying tap of the umbrella alerting the small group in the foyer of his imminent arrival.

Sherlock followed closely behind, suddenly impatient beyond words to catch even a glimpse of his strong, brave, intelligent, and _desperately_ handsome army doctor.

* * *

"You'll move in with me, of course."

John shot a glance at Sherlock; spoon raised halfway towards his mouth, which had fallen open with appropriate surprise.

"Sorry…was that a question? Or, some kind of, I dunno, royal decree?" The blond kept his tone light, but there was an underlying current of strength that reminded Sherlock he was not someone to be taken lightly.

"Don't be absurd John, I would never _force_ you…I'd never – how could you…? Why –"

John laughed, a bright and sudden sound in the room, placing his Jell-O cup back down on his hospital tray (he didn't have the stomach for it anyway, it was the third time he'd had lime this week).

"Calm down, was just winding you up anyway." The smaller man wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, frowning as alarmingly large bits of electric green gelatine came away from his mouth – he wasn't aware that he was such a sloppy eater, must be the medication. He folded the napkin thoughtfully then, placing it to the side of his mostly full plate, suddenly unable to make eye contact with his Alpha.

"You really mean it then?"

"Mean what?" For once, Sherlock sounded genuinely confused.

"You really want me to move in with you?" There was a hopeful note to John's voice that he couldn't suppress, not even if he tried.

The detective let loose a rather exaggerated sigh, moving the hospital table (carrying the tray, et al) away from the side of John's bed so he could scoot closer. He clasped one of John's smaller hands in his own, bringing the knuckles to his cheek in a proprietary fashion. It wasn't that he needed to scent the Omega - that had been taken care of every day, and quite thoroughly in fact. The room positively reeked of Alpha, a clinging and possessive presence that claimed John as taken and no mistake. However, this touch was gentle, speaking towards a trusting and pure love that John saw reflected in Sherlock's parti-coloured eyes.

"I want to be near you, always. I want you by my side…I…thought you'd want that too." The uncertainty in his voice was heart-breaking. It was strange how quickly Sherlock could go from a ridiculously self-possessed and dominating Alpha, to insecure and practically begging for John's good graces. It was charming, frighteningly so. John would never in a million years think he could affect a man like this in such a way.

"Of course I do, Sherlock. My God, of course – but Sarah, Julia and Brandy – I can't just leave them. Marcus –" John's voice wavered then and stuck in his throat, his saliva a little too thick. A hot rush of tears flooded his eyes, though he was able to keep them down, for now. He kept his breathing in check, which helped.

Sherlock nodded in understanding, giving the man's hand a squeeze before straightening.

"I anticipated your concern for the women; they will be taken care of, if you wish. Mycroft has many resources at his disposal –"

"They won't want charity, Sherlock. They are proud and strong, I…don't mind if you help them a little but just, let them make their own decision about what they want to do, okay?"

The younger man nodded, pressing his lips together in a neutral expression that seemed dangerously guarded. The entire atmosphere of the room suddenly changed in a single breath, Sherlock's scent broadcasting anger and protectiveness.

"You – you know I killed him, for you."

It didn't occur to John to speak just then, only he held Sherlock's gaze with his own depthless navy blue eyes.

"I knew who he was and what he did, and I'm not sorry for it."

John swallowed, a hot, clenching sensation wringing his throat.

"He was a bad man, Sherlock. I don't want you to be sorry."

"I would do it again, in a second, in a heartbeat, for you."

The Omega looked away, tears threatening again, knowing the sheen of his eyes was too bright and too glaring.

How did he end up here? Here of all places – with this man? How did the comedies and fractal iterations of life land _him_, a crippled army doctor, here within the esteem and love of a man so beautifully flawed it pained his heart to look at Sherlock's face and know his feelings were fully reciprocated.

"We need to find his family, they deserve to know." John worked on his breathing again, feeling the rush of emotion ebb ever so slightly with the familiar cadence of respirations.

Sherlock trailed a soft line up the back of John's hand, following the powdery blue veins against his skin.

"Molly's already working on the dental records; she will find Marcus' family."

* * *

John stood by the doorway, feeling tired but happy and expertly fielding Mrs. Hudson's rampant affections with good humour. Lestrade eyed both Sherlock and Mycroft as they came down the stairs, satisfaction and resolution glinting in his cocoa-brown eyes.

"This entire situation, oh it's so terrible John, really." Martha Hudson veritably gushed, running her small hands down his arms in open adoration. "And Sherlock, he's been such a mess, you wouldn't believe –"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, thank you, _yes_." Sherlock interrupted rather forcefully, inserting himself between the elderly woman and his Omega. He smiled then, true and with genuine delight, meeting John's gaze with a fierce warmth that lit John's belly with a fire he was certain he could never extinguish.

"Hello." Sherlock murmured, low voice rumbling, the sound waves vibrating and winding their way into John's most secret and inappropriate places.

John stared up at him, a small answering grin growing on his face - to say he'd been looking forward to this moment would have been an egregious understatement.

"Hello, Sherlock."

And it was if the rest of the people in the foyer disappeared. Sherlock and John had only just seen each other yesterday, but that was within the confines of a hospital room. This – this was real, true life. This was a life they were meant to start together.

This, this was _Christmas_.

Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Lestrade all suddenly felt like the third, fourth, and fifth wheel in this little gathering, and eventually moved along. Lestrade and Mycroft paired up, exiting out of the door and talking lowly about the case and the repercussions of Irene Adler's escape. Mrs. Hudson twittered nervously about the entrance to 221A, bemoaning the fact that she'd already left her best tea serving tray upstairs, and as such was not directly able to make them fresh tea, as the newly properly reunited couple deserved. She vanished into her own apartment, promising tea in a bit, should they wish to wait.

Neither man answered, engrossed as they were in each other. It was heady and new, this freedom, this ability to just _appreciate_ each other without obligation and the threat of imminent pain or death (not the _best_ of ways for one to start a new relationship, John realized). There was no case on now, no study, no dead bodies. It was just Sherlock and John, as it was meant to be.

"Those uh, stairs…" John motioned to the seventeen steps up to 221B, "might need a little help."

The Omega flexed his hand, the grip on his metal cane sweaty and warm. He didn't need to mention it to Sherlock twice.

"Of course, just…lean on me."

So together they made their way up to John's new home, a thought so new and perplexing to his mind that it had taken the entirety of his two weeks in hospital to get used to the idea.

His thigh ached, competing with his shoulder and hip for attention. He didn't allow himself to linger on his wounds for long; that was too much for him to handle right now. He hadn't made any significant long-term plans (except to be with Sherlock, of course), only forcing himself to concentrate on getting better and increasing healing and range of movement, and possibly getting rid of the _damn_ cane.

His doctors were all cautiously hopeful. It was a through-and-through, after all, and the muscle damage was considered manageable. His rehabilitation team had every confidence they could get him back to 100% working order in six months or less, if he was fully committed – and he was. He was fully committed to Sherlock, to joining him and creating a new life together, possibly helping on cases or helping out at the flat…maybe, maybe he could even work as a doctor again. The future was new, it was bright, and it was _terrifying_.

John slumped into the maroon and cream brocade chair (_his_ chair now, after all), as Sherlock perched across from him, legs folded up to his chest in his own leather and metal monstrosity. John was out of breath, sweating, and feeling entirely cranky and useless. It would just…take time, he realized. On the coffee table in front of him lay a dirty tea tray, presumably Mrs. Hudson's, and one thin manila folder.

"What's this then?" He motioned towards the folder with his hand, knowing the tea would be cold and, if he was very lucky, Mrs. Hudson might be up with another batch soon.

Sherlock hummed, fixing John with his laser-like gaze. "Transcripts from Irene Adler's interviews, Mycroft brought them by…I thought you'd like to see them."

John tried to hide his interest, but that was impossible in the end, there was so much he needed to know, not only about what he had become, but also about what he could expect in the future.

"So what happened to Irene then?" He questioned, pulling the folder to his lap and opening it up, loose sheets of paper falling with gravity onto his thighs.

"She…uh, she escaped." Sherlock cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with divulging this particular bit of information.

"_What!?" _John jerked, muscles painfully pulling in his injured thigh. This…this was unacceptable, this was _dangerous!_ That _woman _was already responsible for the deaths of a dozen men (and God knows how many more), the thought that she was free…that she could possibly do this to another latent Omega. Panic rose in his chest, searing hot panic. The flat flooded with Omega pheromones, dampened from injury but oily, frightened and thick.

Sherlock rushed to John's side immediately, nosing at his neck and putting both of his hot-warm hands on John's face. The sensation grounded the Omega as he forced his emotions under control.

"Please, please, John don't worry. There's no danger for you here any longer. Mycroft and the government will find her and put it all to rights. This is a safe place for you, I promise."

John moved his head away from the man, jostling his grip on his face. "It's not _me_ I'm worried about Sherlock, it's…it's everyone else who was like me, all the latents, all the innocents who only wanted a normal life, but instead they got…" He tapered off, grabbing one of Sherlock's hands in his own, squeezing mightily. "How do we go on, knowing what we know?"

Sherlock settled himself on the floor, between John's legs, taking care not to place any pressure on his right thigh.

"We go on as we well as we can. There are measures in place to prevent Irene from taking root in any major city again. We are tracking her John, and we will _never_ stop."

The Omega sighed, finally glancing down at the papers in his lap, askew now, and out of order.

"Where - where is my room? Where am I to sleep?" John asked honestly, guilelessly.

"Well I, I thought you'd sleep with me. My bedroom is through the kitchen, just past the bathroom. Don't you remember? You already woke up there once."

John remembered that evening with startling clarity. "Right, just after we met. I just…give me some time Sherlock, to look over this." He motioned down to the papers, and Sherlock didn't need further clarification.

* * *

It was late in the evening when John finally emerged from Sherlock's bedroom, cane pounding against the hardwood floor with gusto.

Sherlock himself was on the couch, pulled up into a ball, still in his own bespoke suit.

John carefully placed the folder back on the table with a sigh, "Sherlock?"

The detective turned away from the back of the couch to regard his Omega, face drawn and unsure. "Yes?"

"Have you read this?"

"I have."

"And?"

"And what?" The younger man queried, running a hand through his already mussed curls. "It doesn't make any difference to me, John, you are still you."

"Am I, though?"

"Of _course_ you are, they didn't _add_ anything to you, they merely…brought out what was already inside."

"Irene said she was like me, a…a _vertex_ Omega. She said it was in my genetic code, dormant, and they made it active."

"Yes."

"These files, they were…informative." John sat back down in his chair, exhausted and emotionally spent. It had taken hours to fully read the files, to fully understand the impact the experiment would have on his life. "Do you think it's true?"

"What's true?" The Alpha spun, moving away from the couch lazily and finally curling up on his own leather chair.

"These things she says I could do - the power I have? Do you think that's true?"

"Well," Sherlock smiled, giving John a hooded, heated stare, "you certainly have power over me."

John snorted with little humour, running a hand up and down his face with worry. "You're biased. I mean it Sherlock, it says I can control people, control my heats…how does that _work_."

The other man shrugged, his blazer pulling on his shoulders. "I don't know, I suppose we'll find out."

"But what…what about my heats? My scent? Irene says it's almost irresistible but…my experience has been quite different."

"You've been injured since your change, John, there's no telling what effect that might have on your new biology."

John sighed, worrying, glancing towards the fireplace and wishing for all the world that there was a fire.

"But how are we to _know? _How am _I_ to know? How – how do I live my life without a basic, core understanding of myself?" John sounded desperate, even to himself.

Sherlock spoke softly, but with earnest. "We'll figure it out, together."


	29. Chapter 29

IRENE MARIE ADLER

PART 1 OF RECORDED INTERVIEW

Date: 12/18/2014

Duration: 53 minutes

Location: New Scotland Yard, London

No. of pages: 13

POLICE: This interview is being tape recorded and transcribed. I am Section 42 (1) (c) and I am based in London, England. I work with the Omega Protective Services. What is your full name?

IMA: Irene Marie Adler.

POLICE: Is it alright to call you Irene?

IMA: That is my name.

POLICE: Alright, can you confirm your date of birth for me?

IMA: September 12, 1987.

POLICE: Thank you.

IMA: Are you going to tell me what you want from me, or am I supposed to just sit here and look pretty?

POLICE: In a moment. Also present with me is Section 42 (5) (f) who will be fielding the majority of the questions.

IMA: Yes, I remember you. How is your brother?

POLICE: You don't need to answer that question.

OTHER: That is none of your concern, Ms. Adler.

IMA: It's Miss, please…and I was only thinking of the well-being of dear John Watson. How is our exceedingly handsome doctor doing?

POLICE: Moving along, I just wanted to clarify that the date is December 8, 2014 and by my watch, the time is 1438. This interview is being conducted in New Scotland Yard in Interrogation Room 11. You have allowed Section 42 (5) (f) to sit in on this interview, yeah, and you will concede any requests at having a solicitor present, am I correct?

IMA: You are.

POLICE: However, you are still entitled to free and independent legal advice, do you understand this?

IMA: I do, I just don't think I'll need it. Why are you wearing masks?

POLICE: We have been briefed on your kind and our medical services felt that masks were necessary.

IMA: My kind? What kind is that?

POLICE: Vertex Omegas.

IMA: Oh, so you've got that much have you?

OTHER: Not to be completely indiscrete Miss Adler, but I do believe an accurate account of vertex Omegas has been gathered from your own records, as well as those from Dr. Wilkes and Dr. Frankland.

IMA: Do you? Well, then you don't need my help after all.

POLICE: Need I remind you that you are in our custody, and as such must answer all questions truthfully until such time as a solicitor is required.

IMA: So what is it I am here for, exactly?

OTHER: To put it plainly - information.

* * *

Unlike those few tortuous days when he was kept prisoner, gasping and sweating in agonizing pain, the aftershocks of John's metamorphosis came in slow and gradual waves. His dreams (always an unknown, considering John's PTSD, among other things) were shadowed, nebulous, but filled with robust scents and primal urges; and the determined erections that greeted him upon waking were impossible to ignore.

John felt like a teenager again, awkward, overwhelmed, tripping over himself and trying not to lean in and scent everything and everyone around him. It was if a whole area of his brain, previously dormant, had suddenly ignited, burning with an intensity that rivalled the nearest red supergiant.

For the sake of his sanity, and (let's be honest) his blood pressure, John decided since that very first night, to sleep in the bedroom directly above Sherlock's. His thigh ached and throbbed with a familiar fierceness, and though he was more than happy to bury his nose in the spicy layers of curls upon Sherlock's brow and _huff_ – he made do with relatively tame heavy petting and deep kissing sessions. Which, let's face it, where absolutely and staggeringly _fabulous_, regardless of the amount of clothes between him and his Alpha.

Sherlock however, wanted more, and he was quite vocal on this fact. He made a list. This list was thrust upon John ten days after he moved in, and John eyed it balefully as it sat in his lap, the blue lined paper as deceptively innocent as a primary schooler's composition book.

"And what's this?" He unfolded the paper, watching with interest as it crinkled ever so slightly when he smoothed it across his good thigh.

"A list." Sherlock loomed over John, not more than a step away from his Omega.

Over time, John could say he had got used to the smell of the apex Alpha he was more than proud to call his own, but that would most definitely be a lie. To John, he still emanated excitement, exuded power and intelligence, not mention he smelt of the most decadent tobacco, purest rosin, and about a thousand other low-notes John had yet to categorize. It was simply mind boggling how sensitive his nose had become since the 'experiment.'

"Yes, I can see that." John offered with barely concealed humour. He lifted his dark blue eyes to the paper, reading each line before lowering the paper down onto the polished side-table to his right. "Explain please."

Sherlock thinned his lips, the sensitive tissue blanching, and then pinking quite fetchingly when he relaxed. He clasped his large hands behind his back in rare display of nerves that John had not seen in quite some time. Somehow, even though he gripped his hands together, his fingers still managed to waggle to and fro in a childish display of fretfulness.

"If you can manage to read it through, I have outlined clearly, and in great detail why it would be beneficial for us to mate and bond on or before your first heat."

John barely managed not to roll his eyes - only Sherlock Holmes could propose a lifetime of shared love and commitment and make it sound like a business transaction.

"Sherlock, we…we're not even sure I _can_ bond. Irene didn't give us much information on that, and considering she's not even bonded herself, it may not even be possible."

"Nevertheless, I want it known that if bonding is possible, then we should…bond that is."

The list lay discarded, forgotten on the small side table adjacent to his chair while John leaned forward and silently regarded his detective.

"What is this really about then? And no fibbing, I can tell by your scent when you're lying." This wasn't exactly true, but John tapped one worn finger against the side of his nose as if he could tell by Sherlock's smell whether or not he'd switched dry cleaners or if the beans in the refrigerator had gone off.

Sherlock flushed, looking chagrined and caught out in equal measure. His fingers flapped uselessly behind him while he stepped away and began to pace, adding to the line of faded threads already present in one straight swathe on the rug.

"I'm not a _fool_, John. I know that circumstances have changed. I see how people look at you on the street, and that…that _horrid_ woman in the line at the chip and pin machine! Not to mention the cabbies!" Sherlock shivered, exhaling through his mouth as if to rid himself of some foul taste stuck to his tongue.

John frowned, only just now realizing just how much his gender change had affected his love. He remembered quite clearly the rather well-endowed female Alpha who'd practically thrown herself at John at the local Tesco. If he hadn't been so taken aback, he might have felt amused, or flattered. Rarely in his past had someone attempted such an open and outward interest in seducing him, and if they did, it wasn't usually because he was an Omega. But that…that _aggressively_ flirting Amazon was entirely too much, and John had to hold back giggles as he limped away, Sherlock practically spitting and growling at the woman as if a dog fight might erupt between the two over the din of curious onlookers and wilfully disobedient automated cashier machines.

It was true that over the past week or so he had garnered much more attention than he ever would have as a latent Omega. Strangers were overly friendly, children flocked to him, and he'd been witness to more than one display of so-called Alpha bravado to win his favour (the most amusing, recently, being a pack of sixth-formers who'd puffed out their chests like a pack of crowing roosters). The thought that the population of England, as a whole, now considered John to be prime mate and bonding material left him more amused than anything else.

John, ever sanguine, took all this in stride; he'd read the files and knew more or less what to expect. He generally ignored the advances and inappropriate, lecherous looks; instead he focused on physical therapy and healing. He never thought, not even once, that Sherlock Holmes, apex Alpha and genetic superior to over 95% of the world's population would be so affected.

* * *

IMA: So what else do you want to know? I tire of these interrogation sessions.

OTHER: As you know, we've already interviewed Dr. Frankland and Dr. Wilkes, but they can't really give use the kind of information we desire.

IMA: Which is? I'm getting impatient.

POLICE: Calm down Irene, please remember you are in custody.

OTHER: We need you to relay everything you've learned about being a vertex Omega.

IMA: That name again. It's silly, don't you think? It's what he called me, but honestly I would have gone with something a bit more impressive.

OTHER: Just give us the information and we'll be done here.

IMA: Fine. Fine. Where would you like me to start?

* * *

"Sherlock, are you…do you think I'm going to leave?"

The Alpha was quiet for an indeterminate amount of time, seemingly unable to answer the question and preferring instead to stare at his reflection in the mirror situated over the empty fireplace.

"Sherlock," John prompted once more, leaning forward to catch Sherlock's attention. "Please tell me what you're thinking for once – without the sideways logic, without the deductions, just please, give it to me in plain, small words you know I will understand."

The brunet couldn't help but smile at that, breaking the stoic and impassive mask that had settled on his face and making him look at least five years younger (but entirely too much like his brother). When he spoke again, each word was carefully chosen and carefully controlled. These were prepared words.

"John, since I've met you, you've taught me so many things. Things I had previously thought to be weaknesses, to be…not advantageous to someone of my kind. You are, without a doubt, the bravest, kindest, and wisest man I have ever known. I, on the other hand, am a ridiculous man. So…is it so very unreasonable to suspect that, at some point, you would be inclined to leave me?"

The blond stared at the taller man, absolutely dumfounded. Here he sat, his right thigh a dull ache in comparison to the maelstrom of thoughts in his head. It wasn't that he was unsure of the depth of Sherlock's feelings for him, it was simply that he had no idea that under those Byronic curls and effortlessly sculpted cheekbones, Sherlock could hide such devastatingly deep insecurities. And then John had to wonder, was Sherlock loved enough as a child? Was he happy before he met John?

John coughed, clearing his throat, though it didn't seem to do him much good. His heart had plummeted and was now beating somewhere in the vicinity of his large bowel.

"Sherlock, I –" He closed his mouth again, another anxious clearing of his throat causing a small and desperate whine to sound out behind his closed lips. "How can you _say_ that? Look I'm…I'm not as elegant with words as you are, and I can damn well say I am nowhere near as intelligent but…everything I've done since I've met you has been for, well, _you_."

Sherlock had long since stopped his pacing and turned away from the Omega, choosing instead to stare out of the far window by the cluttered desk. John watched, worried, as the taller man kept his hands clasped tightly behind his back and looked dispassionately out into London, onto its wet streets and hapless citizens. He absorbed the Alpha's beautiful profile, strong and Grecian as it was, his pale skin reflecting the streetlamps as if he were a ghostly visage out of some Dickensian tale.

Finally, Sherlock spoke, voice uncertain and thick with emotion. John noticed as the brunet angled his face a fraction towards John, that his eyelids were blinking quickly and unevenly, a flutter of movement that was both disconcerting and endearing all the same.

"So…s-so, you're saying that you will stay here…here with me?" And it was heart-breaking how unsure and childlike that simple question sounded.

"Well, well yeah, of course I will stay, Sherlock. I'm here right now aren't I?" He paused for a moment, taking this all in and realizing how unexpected this all was. "You know you're my best friend, right?"

"You're best…friend?"

"Yeah," John laughed softly, flexing his bad leg and only barely managing not to wince at the ache it produced. "Of course you're my best friend."

Sherlock then moved away from the window, gliding towards John quietly and not unlike a beautiful spectre from all the fairy stories his gran used to tell him at bedtime. The taller man landed, knees upon the rug, his torso between John's knees and each hand tentatively hovering about John's own, resting on the arms of the chair.

"I love you, John Watson." He said, finally, as if the weight of emotions and the gravity of his gaze could convey the depths of his feelings for the greying blond – as if his words were inadequate, indistinct, and would never quite be appropriate for accurately describing how he felt about one small, seemingly ordinary doctor.

John groaned above him and moved each of his hands to gather themselves in Sherlock lustrous waves. He tilted the man's face upwards, momentarily caught off-guard by the glossiness of his effervescent eyes. They were wide and innocent, in the moment, like an eager supplicant gazing upwards at his god. John allowed himself a moment to revel in his adoration, and then descended upon his lips with a fervor they had not yet experienced due to John's long and difficult convalescence.

* * *

IMA: It's difficult to explain, it's almost like a reflex, once you get the feel of it.

OTHER: What is? Please be specific Miss Adler, this is going on record.

IMA: The control. The push and pull of it all. Don't play innocent, you know what I'm talking about.

POLICE: I remind you to be clear in your statements, this way there can be little to no confusion or misunderstandings.

IMA: Yes officer, of course.

POLICE: Do go on.

IMA: As I was saying. It's like flexing a muscle you haven't used in quite a long time. The control is there, it's just easier the more you exercise your willpower.

OTHER: And what exactly are you saying you can control?

IMA: Why don't you take off your masks and find out?

* * *

John was exhilarating, he was exciting, he was _exhausting_.

Never had Sherlock come across a creature he wanted as thoroughly as John Watson. He wanted to settle his hand inside his chest, rip apart his ribcage and roll around, gloriously, in his viscera. It was _base_ and _powerful_, how much he _wanted_ this man.

He tried to convey this, with every pitiful and undeserving corner of his being, as John took his head and tempted him into a heated kiss Sherlock had only visualized in his most fervent dreams.

He had had a lot of those dreams as of late. They were laden with the scent of tea leaves, dirty oatmeal jumpers, thin but perfectly formed pink lips, and the taste of caramel and chocolate remained like sweet and salty echoes on his tongue.

Oh _god_, the _taste_ of his mouth, the perfect _shape_ of his mouth. What on earth had Sherlock ever done to deserve such an exquisite mate? In the end it was of no matter, John was_ his_, and John would stay _his_, this he would ensure.

Sherlock's clever, strong hands moved, gripping and spasming in time to the swirling of their heated tongues, roving away from the arms of the chair onto the rough denims covering John's thin but strong thighs. He was especially careful about the pressure of his hands, knowing John's injury, though well on its way to healing, was still tender and sore. He rested his hands, finally, on the cool metal buckle of John's belt and then pulled his head away, heavy promise and carnal desire reflecting in his eyes as he took in John above him, breathless and ruffled.

"Oh Christ…_Christ_ Sherlock, I swear to God, one day, you _will _be the death of me."

The Alpha's mouth twitched in an unconscious grin as he deftly unbuckled John's belt and pulled it, sinuously, in one swift motion out from the loops and tossed it away, unconcerned as it landed in a serpentine heap across the room by the printer.

For a moment he fumbled with the simple metal button at the top of John's fly. Above him, John chuckled momentarily, but that only urged the Alpha further, for the Omega was not supposed to laugh when his mate was to give him pleasure, but only _moan_ and _gasp_ and _cry _and _keen_ into his Alpha's mouth, as was his due.

Sherlock unbuttoned and unzipped John's fly with a swiftness borne of desperation and pure, unadulterated _want_. John, sensing his Alpha's feral and urgent need for his submission complied, lifting his hips and letting his denims, along with his pants, be torn free from his hips and thrown, almost viciously, across the room to land on the far edge of the couch.

And then there he was, open and laid out raw and musky for Sherlock. The Alpha had never known anything as all-consuming as this moment in his life. John's prick was beautiful, the skin matte and velvet, the curling hairs at the base forming perfect ringlets that drew his eyes into the lovely and modest obelisk before him. John was an Omega, to be sure, and as such would never be as physically endowed as Sherlock, but the length and breadth of him was nothing to be ashamed of, and he would show his mate right now how much he appreciated the beauty of him.

"Sh-sherlock…" John stuttered, clutching the arms of the chair, swallowing convulsively as the Alpha breathed one hot breath after another onto the spongy, sensitive head of his cock. Sherlock waited for any indication that John was not up to this, that he couldn't handle this amount of physical exertion, but none came. John laid his head back against the back of his chair and breathed, both hands clutching Sherlock's shoulders lightly.

"Jesus, don't stop…" His Omega pleaded, bucking his hips up once as Sherlock buried his face in the dark blonde patch of hair at his groin. Sherlock suppressed his immediate desire to take a mouthful of the hair and _chew_ and _swallow_ and ingest all of John's essence (because it was strongest here, most _delicious_ here), but he remained sensible and only _laved_ and _bit _and _huffed_ at the base of John's cock, a prize he'd only ever allowed himself to have in his most indulgent dreams.

Sherlock finally moved one large hand to direct John's hot and turgid penis towards his mouth, otherwise it would lay flush and swollen on the man's hard belly, and that was unacceptable. This perfect specimen of a cock deserved attention, it deserved investigation…and who other than the world's only consulting detective could give it the devotion it deserved. Sherlock grasped the base in one soft hand, while his slick and desperately hot tongue roved along the major vein that ran long the underside of John's prick. Sherlock was intent on making his beloved come, but he wasn't above making the man suffer for it.

And how John suffered.

* * *

OTHER: Miss Adler, if you refuse cooperate then other arrangements can be made.

IMA: No, no. I mean, no thank you. I will tell you what you need to know.

POLICE: Do go on.

IMA: To put in laymen's terms, we can control the effect we have on others.

OTHER: How, precisely, is this done?

IMA: I've already told you…it's, it's like flexing a muscle, or – or making a conscious decision, it's hard to explain. If I could tell you more I would.

OTHER: What about heats, what can you tell me about that?

IMA: We experience heats just like any other Omega, it's just that we…don't go crazy. We don't succumb to that weakness. We are completely lucid and in control. Sometimes, in the past, I could completely suppress a heat, if needed.

OTHER: What about apex Alphas?

IMA: What about them?

OTHER: Have you had dealings with them?

IMA: Of course. They're lovely, so pliant and accommodating. The prince of Morocco was most pleasurable, once upon a time. They seem especially weak to our kind, if you know what I mean. Just one word and I could have had that man eating out of the palm of my hand, if I'd wanted.

* * *

The sensation was unbearable, insufferable.

John clenched his palms around Sherlock's ears, pinkie fingers wrapping round the lobes. The mouth on this man was _unforgiveable _and it had been such a long, long time since anyone had pleasured him orally that it took everything the Omega had not to shoot hot and pointed into Sherlock's mouth right then and there.

His eyes were closed, tightly squeezed because he knew that if he looked down once, just once, the vision (Sherlock's perfectly formed lips wrapped close and _hot_ and _tight _around his Omega dick) would be enough to push him over the edge. Instead he breathed, moist and supple into the air of the flat he breathed, Sherlock groaning and grunting as he pleasured John selflessly.

Each wet suck, each wet pull had John's jaw clenching, his neck spasming. He finally clutched Sherlock's head, each hand with a palmful of the man's spidersilk hair, until he let go and ruthlessly fucked into Sherlock's mouth. It wasn't pretty, it wasn't gentle as John effortlessly heaved his dick into his Alpha's waiting and pliant orifice, grunting impossible endearments as he did so. Sherlock sputtered at first, unused to the pounding and driving force, but once he realized this was _John_, he relaxed.

He let the smaller man thrust into him, he let the long, slick, shaft of John's thick manhood fuck into his mouth until there was nothing left but random globules of semen and thick ropes of come climbing down his throat. John, above him, convulsed and cursed in a tide of olfactory satisfaction and soul-clenching realization.

Sherlock had never been so appreciated, never been so _consumed_.

* * *

IMA: It's quite an experience, I can assure you.

OTHER: I'll take you word for it Miss Adler. Is there anything else?

IMA: What do you mean?

POLICE: Please be transparent, Miss Adler.

IMA: I am, if you haven't noticed. Um, there is one more thing.

OTHER: What is that?

IMA: There are those who keep track of me, and they will wonder where I've gone.

OTHER: Will they? Well…we'll have to remedy that now won't we?


	30. Chapter 30

The klaxon sounded, making no mistake as to the urgency of the situation. Captain John H. Watson situated his gear on his shoulders, leaving Major Sholto behind without even a backwards glance and heaving the mass until it rested somewhat comfortably on his strong back. Inside his kit, his medical supplies were well secured, and he ran towards the doorway, the opening giving way and dousing him with the hot, sweltering heat of the Afghan sun.

He followed in line, easily situating himself with his fellow stone-faced soldiers. Each of them had the same sort of thoughts running through their heads: what had happened? How many were dead? Will we get there in time? Who would make it back alive?

John shoved those thoughts down and away; they were unproductive and wholly unnecessary in his line of work. He was an army doctor, a Captain dammit, and if he couldn't keep his cool under fire than his entire company was fucked. Proper fucked.

He barked his orders, Murray and the others hightailing it to their designated Snatch 2A Land Rovers, several in a long line of vehicles idling and preparing to pull out as soon as Captain Watson gave the go ahead. It's true what Sholto said, John wasn't on duty, and neither was his crew, but…when the call came, he knew his men would answer, as sure as he would himself.

Helmand province had always been unpredictable, a hotbed of insurgents, cleverly hidden incendiary devices and suicide bombers masked as innocent civilians. John never knew what to expect when he left the base and ground out onto the semi-arid landscape before him. He supposed, once upon a time, he would have thought this area of the world quite beautiful in its own desolate and otherworldly way. The juxtaposition of desert to irrigated farmlands was intriguing, and the Helmand River itself was more than adequate for a night-time splash about or two…if such a thing were allowed (which it most certainly wasn't)...and the_ sky_, the sky at night was a glorious wonder to behold. Stars upon stars upon stars, John had laid awake on numerous occasions with James just learning the names of all the constellations he could see, certain that he would never be able to remember them. He supposed he might never find out now.

Above their convoy, stark against the blue clear sky, a line of Chinooks thundered low and away across the rolling hills. If John had continued on as a doctor only, he would have been with them and first on the scene, but since he had taken on full duty as a Captain, his responsibilities now lay with the 118 soldiers currently under his command.

Without further delay, they moved out, engines grinding and tyres kicking up the copious amounts of silt and dust that lined every crevice and surface of this godforsaken country. They were well on their way now, radios blazing with terse commands (punctuated by gunfire and distant shelling from their fellow soldiers situated near the southern outskirts of Garmsir), though they wouldn't be the first back-up on the scene. They were too far out, but, if the reports were to be believed, regardless of how far away the attack was, every bit of manpower would be needed.

"Hang on to your chow, Cap," Hopkins bellowed, giving him a sideways grin about half an hour into their journey. It was difficult to hear his usually cheerful tenor against the clipped-whirring of the helicopters and the grinding of the engines. "It's going to be a bumpy ride."

Too true it was.

This far away from the base, the road (if you could call it that) was pock-marked with divots and holes left by past IEDs, inclement weather, and general wear and tear. John scowled and tightened the chinstrap on his helmet, feeling the slick slide of sweat creeping across his brow and dampening the camouflaged fabric. He spared a glance at the smallish crew of young men behind him, solemn and grim-faced as they too were forced to bounce around the cabin of the vehicle on the less than stellar roadway.

"Just be careful, it's a long drive, and I'd like to get there in one piece. Make sure you keep - "

Captain John Watson lost his words, suddenly. He lost his thoughts, and by God his very faith in this world as he saw the vehicle in front of him lurch suddenly and then jack-knife, tail end up in a burst of hellish flames. The Land Rover ahead of them flipped end over end before landing with a sickening crunch in a spray of rocks and flaming debris.

Then the inevitable blast of air, the super-heated wave of pressure that crashed against John's own vehicle shattered the safety glass and ripped a shocked scream out of Hopkins. Spittle flew from his mouth as he gripped the steering wheel, white knuckled and wide-eyed as it became clear he was losing control of their transport.

The two tonne vehicle toppled like a cheap plastic army toy, just like the flaming mass ahead of it. However, this one landed on the driver's side, relatively intact with nothing but the groans of men and unsecured supplies strewn about the inside.

John cried out immediately, repeating the name of each and every man in the transport. To his infinite relief, they all responded with varying degrees of grunts and curses, some more colourful than others. Then the Omega Captain unlatched himself from his seat and, thankful he was on the passenger's side, climbed out of the vehicle, rapidly assessed the situation around him.

The entire convoy had come to a dead stop in the wake of the exploding Land Rover and…and _good God_…

…there was movement near the flaming vehicle ahead. Someone was in there - someone who was still _alive._

Shouts and screams sounded around him, amorphous, drawn out and hazy as he took off in a sprint towards the figure painfully trying to drag his blazing body against the dirty ground. Each bloodied hand gripping and digging its nails into the dirt, clawing and snotting and grunting in agony. Boundless billows of stinking smoke stung the Omega's nostrils as he lurched towards the wreckage.

Oh God, oh _God_, it was Private Patterson, and the entire lower half of his body was on_ fire. _John knew this was no ordinary blaze, such as one would find licking the lips of a frying pan in a kitchen fire. These were heaving, breathing, _devouring_ flames, intent on consuming whatever material that so caught its unholy fancy.

This was the same Brian Patterson that had made John's life a living hell when first he joined the Royal Army. This was the same man that'd made latent Omega slurs against him at every possible opportunity. This was the same man that he'd pummeled into oblivion before finding himself humiliated and sent to Major Sholto's office for the first time so very long ago.

But now, now, he was just a man – a man who needed help, and Captain John H. Watson was a bloody good doctor (_very_ good), and he wasn't the type to hold grudges.

He skidded to his knees, the momentum of his landing kicking up even more dust as he took a visual inventory of the wailing man. Quickly, he took off his own heavy jacket to batten down the flames and assess for any other major injuries. He patted and swatted at the blaze desperately, singeing his own hands in the process. It took a few long minutes (forever), but eventually the fire was gone, and he finally got a long look at the smoking man beneath him. Intermittent shouts, and the staccato ring of gunfire erupted behind the convoy.

The outlook was not good. It seemed Private Patterson's body was relatively intact, but the _burns_ \- the burns were another issue altogether. His legs and lower torso smouldered and stank like charred pork tainted with melted plastic.

"Doc…I – I mean Captain John, I mean Watson…I – I –" The man sputtered, saliva and dirt mixing into muddy globules below his face.

"Shut up Patterson!" He hissed.

That came out a bit harsher than intended, but it wasn't fucking tea-time for Christ's sake.

"Do you know where you are? Do you know what happened?" John clipped, using his jacket to fan away the intrusive, stinking smoke. He was only vaguely aware of the ever increasing amounts of shouting and gunfire behind him.

"Wh-what?" Johnson managed before he retched, heaving several ounces of questionable fluid wetly onto the cracked dirt. "I – I think I'm okay. D-didn't even get hit," he smiled, glassy eyed. He seemed unaware that he'd just vomited. He appeared as equally unaware that his own Land Rover lay in a glowing heap not 10 metres away from his body. "Don't feel a thing, really."

John inhaled unevenly. His stuttered breath spoke of years of missed opportunities, fallen heroes, and lost comrades. He rummaged through his med kit for _something_, a syringe or - or morphine. Possibly he had a narcotic even stronger (hydromorphone); something other than the mess of tourniquets, tape and gauze he'd thought would be more useful. If Patterson made it out of here alive, he'd probably lose his legs.

Actually, he'd most certainly lose his legs. Loss of feeling meant nerve damage. Nerve damage meant third degree burns and John wasn't even about to try and pry the melted Kevlar and protective gear away from his legs for fear of taking extra tissue with it.

He located a plastic vial of meperidine and one 3ml syringe. Hopefully this would be enough to ease Patterson's suffering. Although as a doctor, and as a fellow soldier, he knew it wouldn't be.

He uncapped the syringe and was tipping the vial downwards when a sharp and vicious burst of pain lanced through his body. A single point of searing, violent agony exploded in his left shoulder like some savage beast had got his claws in his person and was tearing him apart one delicate muscle layer at a time.

Somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that he'd been shot.

But that took a backseat to the breath-stealing realization that not only could he not help Patterson, now he could not even help _himself_.

He didn't have the chance to scream. He didn't have the chance to apologize to Patterson for not being able to save him. The only thing he could do was lean, falling sideways into the dirt and pray…

_Please God, let me live._

The syringe and medicine lay forgotten – the clear fluid leaking slowly into the earth.

Then, in a moment of cruel serendipity, the flaming Land Rover not 10 metres from where he collapsed, exploded. The inferno of fire was so fierce he felt the anger of it in his right hip before finally, and blissfully, losing consciousness.

* * *

The pillow against his cheek was abrasive and cold, like cheap cotton if one wasn't careful enough with the quality of one's bedclothes.

John was acutely aware of this, moving his face into the roughened cloth, a bit of spittle dampening the surface of the pillow as he did so.

His dream had left him shivering, but it was the memories that rattled his psyche and reduced his muscles to their rapid contractions, not the temperature. He wiped his palm across his face, unconcerned of the tears that gathered at the edges of his eyes and leaked to string down his temples. He was more glad of insisting he take the upstairs bedroom now than he ever would be; he hadn't had a nightmare about Afghanistan this bad for months, and he'd neglected to even tell Sherlock of their existence.

Somehow, when he was on the streets, his PTSD was tempered by the constant vigilance needed to not end up dead, or a victim of any of London's more unsavoury characters. Now, after what he'd been through, _especially _after what he'd been through, his dreams had returned with a horrible vengeance.

They were useless and counterproductive, these nightly visitations from a part of his life that was once treasured and full of promise. Now, that future he'd so fervently wished for (Major, or perhaps even being the first Omega to achieve Lieutenant Colonel), still lay smoking and bleeding on that long stretch of dusty road just outside of Garmsir.

He actively stifled his cries, the sobs that broke above the stoic surface as they often did when he dreamed of the Army, of Afghanistan. But there wasn't anything to do, there wasn't anything to be _done_ – and he wiped his hand over his face once more, the other arm bending behind his head, his grey sweatshirt barely keeping the shivering at bay.

* * *

"I heard you last night." Sherlock stated, out of the blue, his large hands caressing the smoothly glowing surface of his violin.

John froze in his chair, a wash of cool adrenaline forcing its way through his system before he willfully forced his heart to calm its frantic beating. He swallowed his mouthful of unsweetened tea and placed the cup down gently, unable to make eye contact with his Alpha.

"You'll have to be more specific, Sherlock. I try to keep my wanking sessions quiet. I don't want to offend your apex sensibilities after all." He quipped, trying to diffuse the situation with a joke, poorly timed though it may be.

The violin shrieked abruptly, sharp and loud bursts of sound that twanged from its body as the catgut was forcefully plucked with an unhappy index finger.

"Please don't joke about your nightmares John, it doesn't suit you."

He found he still couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes. Instead, he rested his gaze on the journal before him, hoping against hope they wouldn't have to _talk about it_.

He'd done enough talking about it with his therapist when he returned to London, and fat lot of good that did. John had found more answers and more resolution living underneath that stinking and mildewed bridge than he'd ever found sitting in that bizarrely modern chair in Ella's office.

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Oh thank Christ.

"But I am…here for you, if you need someone to talk to or…if you need a…shoulder to cry on."

"A shoulder to cry on?" John finally looked at Sherlock, who appeared equally as uncomfortable as John felt. The man was hunched over his violin, clutching the poor instrument as a child does to its mother's skirts. "You got that from a book."

"Everyone got that from a book." The Alpha responded, lowering the violin to his lap as he and John finally locked eyes.

John was almost…touched, but more amused than anything else. Sherlock was – what? Reading about relationships? To help John?

He decided not to take the piss after all.

"Thank you. I mean it Sherlock, if I need you, I will let you know.

* * *

Christmas came and went, flying by in a whirlwind of tinsel, fairy lights, and Molly's godawful fruitcake. Honestly, the woman was a wonder with dead bodies and forensic science, but someone really needed to tell her to stay away from the edibles.

Sherlock's mood soured as he forced himself to chew that last, treacly bit of fruitcake, painfully aware of the pleading look on John's face. He'd do anything for his Omega, and apparently that included eating a monstrous slice of fruitcake so foul even Mycroft would run screaming into the bowels of London to avoid.

Mycroft never avoided cake, ever.

Their wee little Christmas party included himself, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Bill Murray, and (a rather cleaned up and quite fetching, if one went for that sort of thing) Sarah Sawyer.

John was calm and at ease, only recently recovering from a bout of horrific nightmares he refused to talk about (though honestly any observant human being could guess) and still retained his moratorium on sex. It was awful.

It was _hateful_.

The glow from the fairy lights outright mocked Sherlock's suffering, opting instead to gleam and blink cheerfully from around the mantel and mirror. The Alpha swallowed the offensive bite of fruitcake, the sponge so dry as to scrape the lining along his oesophagus every second of the way down. His eyes watered.

"Lovely," John offered, bringing a plate of fresh fruits and fragrant cheeses back from the kitchen. He smiled at Sherlock, genuine, sincere, and so full of outright adoration he had to turn his gaze away. The fruit and cheese platter was an offering from Mrs. Hudson to repay Sherlock after playing a beautiful rendition of Good King Wenceslas, one of the voted favourites. Well, Sherlock would play that and a hundred more carols if it garnered a smile like that from John Watson.

"Oh Sherlock, that was so lovely, your playing really is an inspiration." Mrs. Hudson gushed, holding a rather large mug of wassail to her lips. Perhaps she'd had too much. Lestrade stood behind her, one hand resting on John's chair, smiling in agreement.

"Well, I didn't know you had it in you Sherlock." Lestrade sounded quite surprised, though not as surprised as he was when Molly showed up to the party in her black and white sequined fancy dress. The man could barely take his eyes off of her…it was embarrassing. Sherlock should teach the man to breathe through his nose before their next case, he couldn't be seen next to such a…a _cretin._

"Yes. Thank you Gustav, it wasn't that difficult, really."

"Gustav?! It's Gr – you know what, I don't even know why I bother. Molly, would you like another drink?" He moved away from the chair to engage the lovely pathologist, who was smiling sublime and pretty on the couch (if one went for that sort of thing).

Sarah and Bill were in the kitchen, talking lowly, and every so often laughing as they got to know each other. John had recommended the bright girl and Sherlock, having a soft spot for the man who helped rescue John, had no objections. It seemed they had hit it off, and the Alpha couldn't quite help the small sense of satisfaction in a job well done.

"It's funny," John offered, low and personal, as if his words were for Sherlock and Sherlock only, "but I don't recall having seen you in that shirt before."

Sherlock, nonplussed, glanced down at his aubergine dress shirt, certain that he had flaunted it in front of his Omega at least a dozen times (he did so try to look his best for John).

"Really? I've worn it on at least three occasions since we've met. The first being my meeting with you in your "office" so to speak, the second being –"

"Okay, okay, alright. Stop now. I was only joking. Goodness you can be so literal at times." John laughed, his smile causing small wrinkles of joy to alight around his lapis lazuli eyes.

"If you had intended a joke along these circumstances, I would hope that -"

"Stop, don't ruin it, love." He whispered, catching the taller man in an impromptu kiss, sucking his plump lower lip between his own. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, caught off-guard as he was to his own Omega's forwardness. John's honey and caramel scent whispered its way past his brain to his groin, then to his knees, loosening each joint as if Sherlock would fall down in front of this man in supplication.

Oh _God_, he would. In a second, he would.

"John -"

"It's almost time, Sherlock. I can feel it. Can you feel it?"

A sharp jolt of nerves sung down the Alpha's spinal cord as he moved his head to connect foreheads with his Omega (well, not his exactly, but soon…_very _soon that would be rectified). John's scent at once intensified, taking on the characteristics of burnt caramel and cloves. The spices stung Sherlock's nostrils, digging in and staking their claim in his hind-brain, making sure no-one would be as compatible or as wanton as one, John Watson.

"Yes John, I can feel it."


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note: This is an explicit chappie, and if you have been following along since this beginning this should surprise exactly none of you. This is also the last chappie, and I have to say that when I started this fic, I never thought I could actually finish it! Well, I did, and it was thanks to a lot of the readers who took the time to comment and follow, I couldn't have done it without you. I love you all and have several other fics in the works, stay tuned!**

It happened, as most important things do, on a seemingly insignificant Tuesday night naught but a week later.

John had long since recognized the signs (he was a newly formed Omega, not stupid), even before their lovely Christmas party. It was difficult to explain, but it began innocently enough, with a low grade fever. He was too warm at night, eschewing his flannel jim-jams and opting for a more breathable jersey blend, which would still leave him fidgety and sweaty in the mornings. Even his eyeballs felt hot, and for a brief moment he entertained the idea that he had somehow got 'flu.

But Sherlock remained relatively healthy, well, as healthy as one man can be who considers lemon curd on toast a significant meal and insists that breathing consumes enough residual water vapour from the air to prevent dehydration.

So, while John was sure he might be coming down with something, Sherlock seemed as hale and hearty (and as snarky) as per usual, which did nothing to assuage John's fears.

The Omega soon became quite grumpy, and it was easy to hide at first, but after the wounded hangdog look he received from his Alpha after a considerable emotional outburst one late December evening just before New Year's, he realized that something _had_ to be going on. He was having trouble sleeping, feeling hot and then cold, emotions going haywire, low grade fever…

…and then it all clicked. Like the grinding _snick_ of each tumbler in a complicated, rusted lock.

Good God, here it was, what they'd been waiting for all this time.

He was going into heat, _proper_ heat.

He realized this all while sitting in his chair that Tuesday, his collar brushing irritatingly against his sensitive neck (really he wanted to just pull the damn thing off and…and…light it on fire or something) and reading the most recent copy of the Independent.

He froze, the realization dawning on his expressive face, navy blue eyes going wide, and he wouldn't be surprised if he could look up right then and find some kind of anthropomorphized lightbulb dancing gaily over his head.

A rush of blood filled his cheeks, his neck, and _Jesus_…everywhere. He began to sweat, and he was sure the considerable thumping of his heart against his sternum could be heard by the entirety of London proper. John's hand gripped the paper, each small fist wrinkling the newsprint in their grasp as he screamed in abject vexation as he suddenly threw the paper down towards the fireplace. The very edge of the paper caught fire almost instantly, the flame licking and curling at the edges in seconds, leaving dark and delicate whorls of soot and delicate carbon remains that stained the well-worn rug at the hearth.

His head swam as he clambered out of his chair and stomped out the meagre flames with gusto, feeling his cotton shirt stick uncomfortably to the sweat coursing down his neck. He needed to get somewhere, somewhere _safe_ and _now._ The bells alarming in his head (sounding not unlike Big Ben, but ever so more alarming) urged him to find his nest and protect himself, then wait, wait for his mate, his chosen Alpha, to come.

He took a deep breath and got a grip on his considerably running rampant emotions.

No. _No_.

He was vertex Omega, and as such, he was told he had some control over this. He wasn't about to just strip, burrow under the covers and present his ass in the air for anyone to come by and catch a whiff.

No, John Watson soldiered on.

Shakily, with the flush of his hormones making it feel difficult even to breath, he unbuttoned the first two buttons at his neck, feeling the cool air waft in gentle currents about his overheated and prickly flesh. He calmly removed his cardigan and with a trembling hand, placed it on its hook next to his own jacket. The Omega toed off his woollen socks and left them where they landed on the floor, his vision turning hazy.

_Christ,_ but this came on fast.

So fast.

_Too_ fast.

Right.

John couldn't imagine what this would be like for another Omega, if this is what Irene meant about controlling his own heats. He barely felt in control at all, it was all he could do not to undress now and fly into Sherlock's room, rub himself all over his bed and leave his spunk in sticky, pearly pools upon the Egyptian cotton sheets – just his way of saying 'This bed, and the man who sleeps upon it, are the property of John Watson.'

Instead he faced the main door to the flat, standing at parade rest, or as best as he could muster, what with shaky knees and fat droplets of sweat sluicing their way down his lower back and to more sensitive places he dared not think about if he was going to get through this next bit. He tremulously clasped his hands behind his back, and waited for Sherlock to arrive home.

* * *

The apex Alpha was displeased. Not only had Anderson managed to botch up yet another straightforward case, but he'd had to suffer through another tedious meeting with one very starry-eyed DI Dimmock who'd repeated his offer of 'assistance' as if Sherlock needed another slobbering Omega at his side.

No. In fact he did not need a slobbering Omega at his side, the only person he needed was _John _(and John absolutely did _not_ slobber, well perhaps sometimes, when Sherlock placed his hand…NO). But his soldier had been feeling rather ill the last few days and Sherlock, while essentially selfish by nature, couldn't bring himself to put his soon to be mate under any more undue stress.

He gripped the handle just on the inside of the cab door, listening with immense satisfaction as the leather squealed and squeaked against the dirty metal. It had been like this for the past week or so. His _nerves_…he felt on constant high alert, though he couldn't for the life of him recognize any of the usual signs of danger that would normally trigger such an intense fight or flight reaction.

John himself either didn't notice, or didn't care, wrapped up in his own misery as he was. The man groaned and grumbled from his room, only venturing down for lukewarm tea and biscuits, as if that's all his stomach could handle, then shuffling back up the stairs without so much as a kiss or simple 'hello.'

None of this would have particularly upset the detective, he was used to much more unusual behaviour before after all (his own, for example), but not from his beautiful and brave army doctor.

No. Something was amiss, and John Watson's scent was beginning to change.

At first it was so subtle, like someone had secretly planted a hedge of tea roses amongst a field of low-hanging lilac trees. The change was there, but only obvious in small, ethereal wisps of fragrance that grabbed his attention and tempted his nose like an ancient curiosity, full of heretofore unknown knowledge and mystery. But then it would be gone, and Sherlock felt almost sad, bereft even, if he were ever so inclined to feel such things.

Then came the mood changes, the restlessness and of course, the nesting. Sherlock wondered if John himself even realized what he was doing, and if he knew that these were all classic signs of an upcoming heat. The man had never had a proper heat after all, and it hadn't been likely that Irene had the time and motherly wherewithal to sit him down, knit a baby blanket, and explain about the birds and bees.

No, the Alpha was sure he'd come to the right conclusion, and as such, he wanted this to be entirely John's decision.

John would come to him if he wished, and if not…well, that was an unpleasant thought appropriately left for dark and dreary days filled with tortured violins and dying fires.

* * *

_Christ_ this was torture.

John panted, his blue and white checked cotton shirt clinging to his armpits and the small of his back. He could feel his sweat gather in small, glistening pools around the edges of his collarbone; he could feel the moisture tickling at the hidden entrance between his swollen buttocks, which felt unusually plump and aching, begging to touched, groped, or squeezed in brutal and viciously lovely ways.

It would be so easy…so, so easy to just give in now…but there was one more thing he needed to know before he could succumb to his heat entirely.

Underneath him, the floor vibrated slightly, heralding the closing of the front door and the return of his Alpha. The heavy sound of leather on wood echoed through the stairwell, and with it came the gentle (and beautifully overwhelmingly satisfying) wafting of rosin and sweet tobacco.

Sherlock had finally arrived, and God knows what he'd think when he saw John standing in the middle of the living room trembling like some kind of willing sacrifice to the six foot tall god of logic and sex.

The footsteps stopped completely as they hit the middle landing, pausing for a long thoughtful moment before continuing, slower now and more deliberate, until Sherlock reached the second story and turned to find John standing at attention. The Alpha's nostrils flared, then his mouth dropped open and he dragged in deeper breaths, drawing in great big gulps of scent and air as if he could simply taste John from the pheromones awash in the thickened atmosphere. He reminded John of a savannah cat - a predator - an animal that could at once tear him apart so much as knock him to the ground and clench his teeth at John's throat, showing complete and utter dominance.

John grew impossibly hard at that thought, the front placket of his trousers tenting in a ridiculous way that broadcasted his arousal just as much as the extra surge of heat-scent that suddenly lit the air with its intensity. He wanted that. Oh God, he wanted that, but first…

"I know it was you."

The Alpha responded with a sub-glottal growl that resounded low in his long white throat, and John knew he had precious seconds before the man gave in completely to his animalistic drive to mount, bite, and _breed_.

"In the alleyway, I know it was you." He clenched his hands behind him, still clasped together desperately in a sweaty tangle of fingers and thumbs. "Will you deny it?"

Sherlock ripped his scarf away from his neck in a motion almost too fast for the Omega to comprehend; next came his beloved Belstaff, in which he grabbed the seams and _pulled_, buttons flying away, only to _clack_ needlessly on the wooden floor below. He divested himself of his (torn and ruined) coat then as well. And each time he lost a bit of his armour, he took a step towards his Omega.

It was a show. Of course it was a show. It was an ancient mating dance, Sherlock was clearly showing John how strong he was, how worthy, how he was good enough to be his mate, and no one else's.

"Oh _Christ_," John whimpered, swallowing an obscene amount of saliva. He wasn't sure how much more he could take before he let this ridiculously beautiful and powerful man claim him.

"I don't deny it." Sherlock spoke at least, his voice rumbling and undulating through the charged air between them. "It was a test, which you passed. Yet another reason why you are fit to be _mine_, mine and _no one else's_."

John winced as his Alpha raised his voice, his Adam's apple spasming and chest heaving. But no, he would be strong and see this through.

"You are the most glorious creature I have had the privilege to lay my eyes upon." Sherlock swallowed, seeming to regain a bit of his self-control in their emotionally and sexually charged confrontation. "And you were not to be hurt. _Never!_ Never to be hurt."

"So it was an accident then, those men who hurt me."

Sherlock nearly growled again, as if the memory of John's injuries that first night that he'd hauled an unconscious John Watson to his flat triggered more pain than he could bear.

"It was," he spat, voice thick and low with half-lidded excitement, "Mycroft's men weren't even meant to touch you, only see what kind of skills you possessed, to see of you would be worthy to help us." He raised his large hands to his shirt now, the impossibly fitted charcoal grey Dege &amp; Skinner that made John weak at the knees.

"Don't – don't rip the buttons off that one…I quite like that one." He managed to stutter, before setting himself back on task, which was no easy feat.

Sherlock slowed his movements, like treacle and molasses they were, as he languidly undid each and every pearled button of his shirt, revealing a slim and well-toned abdomen underneath that just begged to be bitten and marred and _ruined_.

John gritted his teeth so hard his molars must surely have taken offence.

"It's…fine then but," he was outright shaking now, voice broken, "but promise me never again…I…couldn't bear to be used, deceived again. N-not by you. I love you Sherlock, and if you want to bond with me then…th-then okay, we can do this…w-we can figure this out -"

And that seemed to be all the consent Sherlock needed, he rushed John in two long strides simultaneously managing to take off his shirt completely and kick his Italian leather shoes off his large feet. His face was murderous, and normally that would have given John some pause, but he knew the truth behind the screwed up features and snarled lips…it was rut and passion and the itch to dominate and didn't they _always_ go hand in hand.

One of Sherlock's large, hot palms wrapped itself around John's neck, squeezing his throat until the older man whimpered and relaxed, almost falling limp in the middle of their living area. It was an age old display of submission that seemed to please the Alpha, whose eyes had grown wide and dark and full of lustful intent. John wasn't entirely sure how much of Sherlock was actually left inside that brain, that brain that was now stewing in an impossibly strong brew of pheromones, hormones, and the unmistakable scent of a willing and ripe Omega.

And as lovely as that all was, and as much as John wanted Sherlock to knock him over the head and throw him over his shoulder cavemen-style, he wasn't above making the Alpha work for it…at least a little.

The Omega straightened, the scent in the room taking on a spicy air of wilful disobedience that made the almost feral Alpha grunt in surprise. Immediately, John swung both his arms around, catching Sherlock's hand and overextending the wrist painfully, causing the man to gasp and stumble.

Oh, this would be fun.

"I said we could figure this out my love, but I didn't say I would make it _easy_. If you want me, you'd better _fight for it_."

Then John swept Sherlock's feet out from underneath him in a viciously unfair movement that'd been trained into him since his Army days. Sherlock, comically surprised and taken completely unaware, fell down on his knees _hard_, staring up at John as if he was the second coming himself.

John laughed; a sound tinged with outright joy as he leapt away from the downed detective and slowly stripped off his own checked shirt. It was soaking now, practically dripping with Omega sweat, and he lobbed it at the ground towards Sherlock's knees.

"Do you want that?" He grinned, fumbling with his belt whilst walking away from the man, teasing. He knew the flat wasn't very big, so he couldn't keep up this chase for long, but _oh god_, it would be glorious while it lasted. "Do you want me?"

Sherlock looked downright murderous as he gripped the sodden shirt, bringing it up to his nose in great big huffing inhalations that reminded John more of a desperate man gasping for air than the erudite and often caustic detective he'd come to know and love.

Satisfied, the Alpha slowly stood, the shirt left used and damp on the floor, a poor substitute for the real thing. John had backed off into the kitchen now and successfully managed to the get the faded green kitchen table between them. He waited then, to see what the Alpha would do, before deciding on his next move.

Sherlock glared at John as he too reached the table, both hands splayed across its surface, utensils and test tubes falling victim to his lust, rolling away and crashing to the lino in a spray of glass and dust.

"Submit to me," he snarled, fingernails scraping at the chipped paint of the table, eyes fully dark, breathing and heart-rate well above acceptable levels of excitement, "and I'll be gentle."

John Watson smiled in that curious way of his as he whipped his belt away from the loops of his trousers. He made a loop and grasped it at each end, snapping it loudly, just once, to make his point.

"What if I don't want you to be gentle?"

That was all Sherlock could take. With a grunt he lunged away from the table, both large hands splayed to catch his Omega, until John swung round effortlessly and entangled both his wrists in the belt loop, swinging the man round into the far wall next to the hallway. Sherlock thudded, back against the wall, as John leaned in and scented his Alpha, running his nose up his neck for only a moment, until leaping away from an enraged Sherlock.

"I don't plan to be." He laughed, he outright snickered at the thunderous look on his mate's face, until he realized Sherlock would make quick work of the belt loops and come at him with every devious thought ever borne from that wickedly exceptional brain.

Alight with playful love and just a hint of true danger, John's heart beat a tattoo of lust and heartbreak, injury and reparation, and every long dark day he ever had to spend wondering if he'd find someone who'd love him, wholly, for being just John Watson, and not a collection of reproductive organs and societal expectations.

He finally got his wish, after all this time, he'd finally found it, and the elation that came with this realization was soul-shattering, a veritable supernova of emotions he'd buried inside himself so long ago he'd thought he'd never love, or let anyone ever love him in return, ever again.

This impassioned emotional breakthrough was tempered (a bit) by the roar of a frustrated apex Alpha whose hands had only managed to become free from John's twisted and surprisingly effective belt trap.

_Uh oh_, John thought wryly as he wriggled his way out of his trousers, leaving them sopping and in a heap in front of Sherlock's bedroom door. _Here he comes_.

Sherlock crashed down the hallway, face flushed and dangerous, eyes wide and glinting in the low light. John, still ridiculously erect and excited, hopped through the doorway in one backwards movement, before slamming the door in his Alpha's face and bracing himself against the sturdy wooden plane. The whole idea was to give Sherlock a proper chase, a proper _hunt_, not to frustrate the man into a frenzy. John left the lock untouched, and was sure that with just a little more resistance, his Alpha would find his final submission as sweet as honey, as sweet as the downy tufts of pollen found on the delicate legs of Sherlock's beloved bees.

He smiled to himself, although that smile wavered with the first crash of Sherlock's shoulder flung against the door. The hinges groaned at the ill-treatment, and John was thankful that Mrs. Hudson was away at her sister's for a marathon bridge tournament, lest she be subjected to their lustful and not-so-quiet, and possibly quiet violent, lovemaking. John's heels skidded against the floor before he managed to secure it once more, inching off his soaking pants as he did so.

A scratch of nails sounded against the wood, high-pitched and raspy against the painted surface.

"John…_God_…_John_, why are you doing this to me…_why?_" Sherlock pleaded, voice guttural and low, coming from deep within his chest where only his most secretive and base desires dwelled.

John smiled, still braced against the entrance. "I didn't think you would be so dense Sherlock," he gasped at another strong wood splintering _thump_, only barely managing to keep the door closed. "If you want me, you have to catch me. I thought you were apex Alpha, I thought you were supposed to be _strong_, a _genius_. Was I mistaken in my assumption?"

And that would finally be the last straw. John was prepared, oh _God_, was he prepared. His cock was erect, crimson and flushed, curved upright towards his belly and admonishing John for making it wait so damn long for absolution.

"_John_…" A whisper, almost heartbroken, upset, and the Omega only had one second to move away –

\- before the door was kicked open with enough force to rattle the walls and knock a ten centimetre hole in the plaster just underneath the Periodic table hung next to the window.

Sherlock, John now realized as he allowed the delicious miasma of Alpha essence to curl around his hind-brain, was also completely naked now, his prick formidable and glorious, throbbing infinitesimally in its arousal.

With an inhale, John scrambled away from the entrance towards the wardrobe, expecting the next bit to be a little rough, though in all actually he wanted it to be rough, it would be _glorious_.

Sherlock stalked into the room like the predator that he was, hair wild and unkempt, cheeks flushed, and eyes so dark John could see the reflections of the heavenly constellations in their depths. His entire chest was flushed and mottle with arousal, his bollocks large and tight against his shaft. His only objective was John Watson, and as he turned his depthless gaze on John, the Omega knew the time for resistance was over. He had wanted to make it good for Sherlock, he had wanted to excite the man, present a challenge. Now this was done. Now was the time for mating.

John inched towards the bed now, as Sherlock paused not one metre from the Omega, chest heaving and huffing in pure instinctual response to his mate. John made no sudden movements as Sherlock now stood still, gaze fixed upon his Omega, the charged air between them crackling and sparking with energy. Slowly, John crawled onto the bed on all fours, making sure the slick from his entrance faced his Alpha. John knew it was reddened, engorged and swollen, tempting in its blood suffused beauty.

He put himself on display, as dozens of Omega had for centuries, showing his mate how _aroused_ and how _ripe _and how _beautiful_ he was.

John only heard a small rustle of movement behind him as he felt the mattress dip down towards his feet. He felt a touch, feather light, as Sherlock's chest thrummed and purred at the Omega's sudden and eager acquiescence. Alphas, even apex Alphas, weren't so hard to please when a willing partner finally succumbed and presented themselves for mating.

The first thing that registered in the blond's hormone addled mind was Sherlock's heated, humid breath against his right thigh. Then his tongue, oh _Jesus_ that gorgeous, clever tongue, lapping and licking up every trail of slick that had weaved its way between the Omega's sparse and downy blond hairs that grew upon his strong and lean thighs.

John wailed only once, as another rush of fluid pulsed from his entrance, coinciding with a twitch from his dick. God he had no idea, _no idea_, lovemaking could ever feel like this.

"Submit to me John," Oh, and there was Sherlock again, not the apex Alpha, not the rutting beast, just the man, "Submit and let me have you please, _please_. Will you do this for me?"

John's head swam with the intense pleasure of it all.

"Yes, oh _God_ yes, take me. I'm yours, always yours." He was breathless, aching, and almost insensible in his need.

Sherlock took both his large hands and grabbed John by the hips, ruthlessly pulling the man's ass further into the air and forcing his head down, John's lower back arching to an obscene degree. John cried weakly into the linens, his cock bouncing against the expensive sheets in a short pulse of maddening sensation.

"I want all of you," The Alpha demanded, rough, dominant. "I want it all. You are no one else's." He repeated - parting the succulent orbs of John's buttocks until his hole was revealed and splayed open for the pleasure of his mate.

"Yes," John breathed, rubbing his face into the sheets, delighting in the delicious smell of his detective infused in their depths, weak though it may be, "always, always yours – _ahhhh!_"

* * *

Sherlock leaned in, without warning, and ran his rough tongue along the circular cinched folds that made up his beloved's slicked entrance, laving and massaging the inflamed hole with the care and worshipful attention that it deserved. John's slick ran freely, and he drank it in, like ambrosia, for it was sweet and musky and _base_ and everything good and perfect in this world that he had previously chosen to abstain from. It was liquor of which he would never find an equal, a necessity he didn't know would become essential to his being.

John whimpered beneath him, back undulating and hands clenching and unclenching in their abject pleasure – and Sherlock was vindicated. After all, the Omega teased him and made him work for this, now there was no mistaking his claim on John Watson. Sherlock owned his body, and he erupted with pride, and he would never mistreat it, he would live only to give his Omega pleasure.

"John, my John, all this for me?" He flicked his tongue teasingly against John's anus, enjoying the in and out pulsation of the muscle, "I'm going to eat you alive. I'm going to suck you dry till there's nothing left. Would you like that?"

"Huh..uh…_God_..uh…" was the only response the Omega gave, his modest cock reddening even further, glistening with tacky, pearlescent fluid.

He flattened his large tongue then, letting his pulse against John's hole, which quivered and contracted with the attention, revealing long rivulets of fluid Sherlock knew was only for him. And Sherlock growled again, burying his face between John's two generous cheeks, licking and sucking and_ fucking_ him with his tongue, ingesting and absorbing every bit of John's sweet excretions till he felt he could glut himself no more.

His Omega was a writhing mess beneath him, beads of sweat glistened on his back, against his bullet wound, against the burn patterns on his hip, and Sherlock had never, ever, seen anyone more perfect or more beautiful than his soldier compromised and laid low, abject and desperate for the relief that only Sherlock could give him.

John cried out, "_Please_, Sherlock please. Just do it. We've waited so long…I want it, _please_."

Regardless of the earlier teasing and rough play, Sherlock was in no mood to argue. He knew from his research that it was much easier to bond when the Omega was on all fours, or on their stomach, and so John would remain. The access to his Omega's bonding glands was ideal, and though he worried he might get carried away, he knew John was strong and could probably handle anything Sherlock threw his way.

"Yesssss…" The Alpha hissed, gripping his impressive and imposingly turgid shaft in his right hand, lining up with John's entrance, feeling the blood-hot kiss of tension as he first makes contact with his Omega's passage.

"_Uuuuuunnghh_…" The Omega cried, struggling to breathe evenly, "Jesus, you…you're…so big."

Sherlock smiled to himself with rapturous, possessive glee…John had never had an Alpha, only Betas, and who could ever compare?

The apex Alpha teased a bit at his entrance, testing the tensile strength of the sphincter and finding it deliciously tight and responsive. He pumped gently, a few more times, as John hissed beneath him, crying and choking on his own breath.

* * *

It was nothing like he'd ever felt before. The stretch was insane, impossible, and more than he could possibly manage. But Sherlock, his wonderful intelligent Sherlock seemed to know this, and kept his thrusts shallow and short at first, testing the waters and kneeling back with a calming huff when he needed to.

Lubrication was not the issue; it was the pure size of Sherlock's cock that made their coupling so fragile and tender. His apex Alpha had to be gentle, for John had never been with an Alpha before, and it had been quite some time since Major Sholto.

But they persevered, as lovers who are inexperienced but eager always do, and the sharp pain and muscular clench of outright penetration finally gave way to a warm and growing sense of pleasure John felt somewhere, deep down in his muscles. Sherlock whispered dangerous things, promises and affirmations that were absurdly romantic considering he was fucking John's brains out and on the precipice of merging their lives in one glorious teeth-ripping moment of pain and brutality.

But John didn't care, he rocked back into Sherlock, taking more and more of his impressive size in, his body accommodating the massive girth and length of his Alpha as if he'd been born to it.

And if he had been more of a romantic sort, he thought, maybe he _had_ been born to it.

Sherlock drove deeper and deeper into John, grunting and groaning in a way that made John's heart sing. The Omega was awash in carnal sensation, the movement, the friction, the spot that Sherlock managed to tease when he was deep, deep inside John that made him cry out in ecstasy. How could there be anything more than this? More than two bodies connecting in an ancient way to bring pleasure and life unto this world. This is what they were made for, right? This is what life was all about.

Then, the tugging, the rough friction that assaulted the ring of John's sphincters as Sherlock pulled out each time, threatened to undo the Omega. He knew what it was, he knew what knotting was, and he knew they were close.

He rose, unsteadily, straight up onto his knees, because he knew that it had to happen to _now_…it just had to.

Sherlock seemed to realize this at the same time John did - and through the huffs and puffs of his pleasure and exertion, he knew that it was time.

The building tension, the tickling pleasure that_ licked_ and _pulsed_ and _throbbed_ throughout John's pelvis finally reached its peak, his growing orgasm was becoming too much to hold back or ignore.

"_Jesus_, love, are you close..?" John gasped. "Because I am _so close_. Give it me to me, God, please, I need it, Jesus."

Sherlock resumed his most ardent thrusting, his knot scraping and teasing his Omega's insides as they quivered and responded to the unending stimulation. Sherlock grasped John's good shoulder and pulled him roughly from the sheet, wrapping his large hand around the front of his neck and whispering in his ear as he continued his forceful pounding.

"My sweet John, this may hurt."

"Oh god," John breathed, having never been more sure of anything more in his life. "I can take it."

"Then _take it_. My Omega_, take it_."

Sherlock sobbed, loud and long as he buried himself inside John, knot inflating fully and expanding against the sensitive secondary muscular ring inside John till it knocked the Omega's breath away.

And it was only a second after that that John's orgasm hit him, and hit him _hard_.

The contraction seemed to begin from his very toenails, only to spread upwards from his legs to localize in his groin and expand exponentially into his torso in a wave of unending pleasure that paralyzed his diaphragm and made it impossible to breath.

It was a revelation, a force of nature, and only tempered by the rough pressure-sting of a savage bite that forcefully distracted John from his devastating orgasm and onto the back of John's neck, wherein Sherlock had latched himself with dominant assurance, finally able to demonstrate and claim this Omega as his own.

It _hurt_. It hurt _terribly_.

And the Omega was just about to pull away, knot notwithstanding, until Sherlock began to lick, gentle and sure, reverent and loving, against the bond mark. The short, wet strokes eased the pain, though blood ran freely down John's back, and the pain morphed into a kind of loose pleasure.

That morphed into an intense pleasure that rivalled the orgasm that just left him flailing and stupid as he took his lover's knot. His cock, obviously flaccid after spending itself so thoroughly after that fantastic (and first time knotting) orgasm, rose impossibly to attention once more, twitching itself into a dry orgasm that was somehow even more intense than the one previous.

John was gutted, gasping and panting against his lover, his sweat-drenched back leaning against Sherlock's chest. The Omega had made little mess, as he was not gifted with testicles but only the most basic of seminal fluid, so the mess wasn't a problem.

Sherlock continued to lick long and hard and thorough against the bond mark, infusing his saliva and marking John as his own.

John had never felt so loved, so royally fucked, and claimed (let's not mince words here), and so consumed in one session of lovemaking in his entire life. Granted, he didn't have much experience to compare it to, but he was sure that sex with Sherlock Holmes was never nothing short of extraordinary, just like the man himself.

Sherlock lowered them gently, sweetly, and devoutly unto the sheets, though he was still trapped behind his Omega. Every once in a while he would grunt and groan, another orgasm shooting a sizeable load of semen into John's passage, little good though it would do.

John fell asleep not long after to the feeling of his beloved's sensuous tongue, licking and fondling his bite mark, sending shocks of pleasure down his spine, and completely convinced of the notion that although Irene never mentioned bonding was possible, it most certainly was.


End file.
